


Light in the Shadows

by beers4fears



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Espionage, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Masturbation, New Republic Politics (Star Wars), POV First Person, Post-Season/Series 02, Reader-Insert, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-18 08:34:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28740327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beers4fears/pseuds/beers4fears
Summary: After the New Republic’s run-in with a dangerous Mandalorian in the Outer Rim, the patrol officers were left with more questions than answers. Your mission started out simple - tail him, keep to the shadows, and watch out for anything suspicious. Standard procedure as far as New Republic espionage goes, if a little dry.What should have been a boring recon op quickly turned into a wild chase across the galaxy, always a few steps behind this mysterious warrior and his small son. When you discover the kid’s powerful with the Force and being hunted by Imperials, the stakes get even higher.And when the chase ends? Turns out it’s just the beginning.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You
Comments: 15
Kudos: 54





	1. Chapter 1

Yep. This is definitely beyond my pay grade.

I watch in still shock as a squadron of droid ‘troopers descend from the Imperial cruiser towards the Seeing Stone. Through my binocs, I can see their glowing red eyes, evil and soulless like the Empire itself. I record the images for my report.

Agent Morris is gonna flip shit when he hears this.

I mutter a curse under my breath as the Child is plucked from his meditation and rocketed back up towards his captors’ ship. There is terror in his large, innocent eyes. His ears flap wildly in the wind, like torn sails.

“Shit,” I grumble, spitting to the ground beside me. “Fuckers got him,” I growl into my wrist com.

Where the _kark_ is his dad?! He shouldn't have left the rock. This man, despite all his talents in bounty hunting, is a total dumbass encased in beskar steel.

I unholster my tagging gun and steady it against a nearby boulder, aiming down the sight at one of these terrifying droids.

“Dank farrik,” Agent Morris responds through the com. “Try and tag one of ‘em. And get me a lock on the ship. Need a signature and as much data as you can pull.”

“I’m on it,” I confirm, squeezing the trigger to shoot a physical tracker towards one of the droid ‘troopers. For a brief moment, I hold my breath, watching my scope for confirmation it’s made contact.

After a few tense seconds, the display blinks the affirmative.

Riding high from making the near-impossible shot, I fluidly reach around to pull a surveillance antenna up out of its housing on the side of my tech pack. The green indicator lights blink rapidly, increasing in frequency until the entire light bar is illuminated a steady, solid emerald. I unholster the datapad from the other side of the pack and prepare to open the link to Morris’ office.

“Pieces of shit. S’just a kid,” he rants on, his grizzled voice crackling over the encrypted line’s static.

Agent Morris is a good man - an intelligence officer for the New Republic. He’s an old veteran, a survivor of the galactic war. He even fought on Endor, and said the post-victory celebration was the best party he’d ever been to.

I hadn’t met many truly good people in this strange galaxy, but he was one of them. Kind-hearted, with a grit I admired. He recognized the grit in me, too.

When he arrested me on Nal Hutta, I was dragged kicking and screaming out of the cockpit of a stolen cargo speeder. I spit at him, bit his wrists, drew blood until it dripped down my chin. He had no reason to show me mercy - in my interrogation or otherwise.

He saw potential in me, that I could be useful to this new, fledgling power. Instead of fury, or heartlessness, he showed me forgiveness. He brought me cold, clean water and warm meals, passed beneath the small opening in my cell door. He listened to me.

Morris showed me a way out of the gangs - a way to repent for everything I’d done.

Some Jedi monks came by the cell block one day and talked to the prisoners about karma - about balancing dark with light. I knew it was a cheap tactic to wring confessions out of us, and I didn’t pay it any mind.

Morris’ gentleness, though - his understanding, like a patient father - that I _did_ pay attention to.

I remembered laying on the cold steel floor of my cell that night, how my tears had dried and left behind salted trails. I remembered thinking, _if I’m going to be a murderous piece of shit, I might as well be a murderous piece of shit for the good guys._

I’d been working with him ever since, doing the New Republic’s dirty work - quiet assassinations, covert heists, political sabotage. Mostly lots of spying. It was all the things they didn’t want hitting the holonet, including my current job tracking this high-value pair.

It was worlds better than what I’d been doing before.

“You getting the feed yet?” I ask, tapping over lines of de-encrypted code on the screen. I can catch some of it as it zips by - ship manifests, last recorded positioning data, fuel levels, schematics.

“Yeah. Stay on ‘em as long as you can.”

“Copy.”

I swipe sweat from my brow and scan the valley ahead, watching the Mandalorian’s ship burn and melt away - or at least what’s left of it. I frown to myself. Poor guy’s probably having a kriffing aneurysm under that bucket. He holds his shoulders so high and tight all the time. It can’t be comfortable.

Overhead, I hear the familiar rumble of a cruiser preparing for lightspeed.

“Less than ten seconds, Mo,” I report, squinting up to watch the ship take off. The kid’s probably already in a cell of his own by now.

Considering the massive fucking beacon of glowing blue light he just conjured up out of nowhere, I know the little goblin is more powerful than he looks. It lessens my worry for him. Having observed his stoic, silver guardian for so long, I worry even less. The man will never let him go.

“I’ve got what I need,” Mo says. I can clearly picture him crossing his arms in a grim sort of satisfaction, how his bushy brows fold up to match. “You did good today, kid.”

I start to pack up my supplies. “So what now?”

I hear his heavy sigh from my wrist. It sounds so far away as I slip my tech pack onto my back. I suppose he _is_ awfully far away, tucked up in a skyscraper on Chandrila while I’m here in the middle of nowhere.

I briefly curse the Maker for doing my job too well. It’s keeping me from home, and way too busy. At least with the gangs, slacking off was so expected it was almost a prerequisite.

“Keep tracking him,” Mo says. “Don’t step in. Not yet.”

“You can’t be serious,” I gruff back. “The Imps got the kid. We should be bringing in an attack squadron, or at the very least—”

“ _Hey_ ,” he cuts in with his interruption. “You know we don’t have the firepower for this yet. Let the target make the next move. Give him time.”

Yikes. I mean, yeah, better him getting offed than me, but...

“I don’t like this,” I huff as I straighten back up, dusting the grass off my pants.

“You don’t like anything,” Morris deadpans. “Keep an eye on him. Fett’s too dangerous for you to get close just yet. You should know that.”

I smirk and start the walk back to my ship. I’d heard the rumors about how Boba Fett had clawed his way out of the sarlacc. It was a popular legend amongst the gangs - how this bogeyman bounty hunter would come back one day to avenge his torturers.

Maker, the guys on Nal Hutta would’ve kriffing _shit themselves_ hearing about what I just saw. Boba Fett in the flesh, back in his armor, taking out an entire division of ‘troopers. It was the stuff of drunken ghost stories.

“My job just got infinitely harder,” I complain into my com, pushing the button for my ship’s ramp. “Can’t exactly track the Razor Crest when it’s a pile of ash.”

“You’ll figure it out,” Mo dismisses. “Send those scans before you make a jump.”

“Will do.”

I power off my wrist com and enter my ship - an old beater of a thing that the New Republic insisted I use for its anonymity. The nerds in the intelligence office installed a whole array of faux signatures and com boxes, making it essentially a shapeshifting ghost that could slip past any security tower.

Despite her looks, fuckin’ hell, this baby can _fly._ With a quick send-off of my binoc scans, I warm the engines and soar up through the atmosphere, enjoying the pleasant push of g-forces from the ship’s powerful thrusters. I can see a hole in the ozone where Fett’s ship punched its way into open space before taking off, unable to be tracked.

I sigh, knowing I’m going to have to get very creative in order to find this silver Mandalorian again, and ensure his son stays out of the Empire’s clutches. My navcomp beeps, its coordinates loaded for Takodana. Might as well blow off some steam while I keep my ear to the ground.

I pull the hyperspeed lever above my head and hold my breath as the stars stretch blue ahead of me.

———

  
I can’t remember his name, but I don’t really know that I care. Roland? Rennek? Romeo?

What I do know is that his arm is heavy and hot, slung around my waist as we stumble to my ship in the nearby clearing. The growing darkness makes the black stubble shaded along his jaw even darker, sexier.

I struggle with the fob as he slides his hand down to my ass.

“Real glad I came up to you at the bar,” he purrs in my ear, laying it on maybe a touch too thick.

“I bet,” I jab with a sultry giggle, stepping backwards to let the ramp lower. I wave him inside. “Welcome aboard.”

He hums his appraisal as he looks around the cargo entryway.

“It’s not much,” I shrug, “but better than you sleeping on the floor, yeah?”

Maz’s was out of rooms for the night. Poor Romeo - Rennek? - didn’t have a ship or any credits. How convenient that I have a bed and haven’t gotten laid in months.

Romeo - whatever his name is - slinks towards me, curling his hands around my hipbones. With clumsy, staggering steps, he backs me up against the bulkhead and leans in until his lips just barely brush mine.

“You suggesting I’m staying the night?” he coos. A tiny thrill shoots up my spine, making my core pulse. It’s been so long - too long for me, anyway.

I rake my fingers up into his shaggy black hair.

“Maybe. If you’re good to me,” I whisper, the skin of my lips catching against his. I feel his breath fan across my chin as he lets out a devilish huff.

“I can do that,” he nods, molding his mouth to mine in a hot, wet kiss. I feel my head swim, both from the booze and from the attention. My underwear clings to my swollen lips, slick and ready between my legs.

Just as Roland starts peeling my shirt off, I hear it. The steady beep of a waiting message on my encrypted channel.

“Shit,” I mumble against him, placing my hands haltingly across his shoulders. He pulls away and arcs an eyebrow. “Hold on.”

I slip out of his grip and unlock the cockpit, closing the door behind me. The com array blinks an angry, mocking red at me. Seven missed calls from Morris. _Fuck._ The color drains from my face and I suddenly feel very sober.

I play his message and lower the volume enough that Roland won’t overhear.

_“Kid — pick up. Got big news about our guy. Call me.”_

Of course he does, now of all times. I run a hand through my hair and exhale, shimmying the lust out of my limbs. Gotta pull it together, gotta get this done, then I can have a little fun. I punch in Mo’s code and wait for his blue holo to appear.

“Hey,” he quips, short and distant, like he’s busy with something.

I greet him with a sharp wave of my hand as he swivels away from his cluttered desk and towards the holo transmitter.

“Where you been? I’ve been trying you for hours,” he gruffs.

I roll my eyes and cross my arms with a smirk. “You said you had news. What’s up?”

“Are you drunk?” he asks blankly. “I’ve got you pinged at Maz’s.”

I snort sarcastically. “Not drunk anymore, that’s for sure.”

“Uh-huh,” he dismisses with a sigh.

“You’re a real vibe killer, you know.” I shoot Mo a roguish smile and sit in my chair, folding my ankle over my knee. “I’ve been out here digging for leads. Doing the things all you bigwigs don’t wanna do... Getting my hands dirty.”

“Sure,” he says, raising one of his bushy eyebrows. “Tell me what you’ve dug up.”

“Well… Nothing yet,” I shrug dejectedly. I don’t miss Morris’ wry smirk. “You gonna tell me what’s got you so desperate to reach me?”

Mo opens his mouth to talk, but snaps it abruptly shut when he hears the rap of knuckles against my cockpit door. The guy from the bar says my name, muffled through the steel.

“Just a minute!” I holler over my shoulder.

Mo fixes me with an unamused look.

“What?” I ask him, playing innocent.

“While you’ve been playing grab-ass,” he starts, forcing another eye-roll out of me, “our Mandalorian just handed over a whole buffet of intel.”

My heart trips in my chest as it begins to speed its beating.

“What happened?”

“He took out an entire Imperial refinery on Morak. Holy shit, right?”

 _Holy shit._ It’s all my brain can come up with at the moment. “Holy shit,” I parrot back.

“Yeah,” Mo grins. “It gets even better.”

He clicks away on his keyboard and pulls up a holoscan of a man - late-thirties it seems, with a mop of mussed hair and a short-cropped, patchy beard. He’s handsome, despite the lines of panic and tension that pinch his face taut.

It all comes together at once.

“Mo…”

My voice is breathless and distant. There’s no way…

“This is our guy. His face and name are being blasted across every Imperial intelligence channel as we speak.”

Mo does nothing to hide his giddiness, chortling to himself as he pulls up the ISB’s intercepted bulletin. I’m rendered speechless as I stare at the man’s face, at this treasure he’s kept buried from the universe for his entire adult life.

“What’s his name?” I ask, my eyes still fixed on his bare face.

“Din Djarin,” Mo answers. “And he’s headed straight for that cruiser you tagged.”

“No fucking way,” I quietly exclaim, a smile widening across my face. “Permission to step in? Please?”

Mo chuckles and shakes his head. “Follow at a distance.”

I deflate in my chair. Rennek pounds on the cockpit door again.

“Just a minute, fucking _stars!_ ” I shout back at him.

Mo laughs in earnest this time. “Evict your impatient guest and get going.”

I stand from my chair with a mostly-feigned sigh and begin to warm the engines.

“Yes, sir. Just shoot me the coordinates.”

“Will do, kid,” he nods. “And hey. Don’t intervene. Not until you absolutely have to. You’re too important to lose.”

“Fine, _dad_ ,” I jokingly grit out, hiding the way my chest turns to mush. He cares about me in a way I’ve never known.

“May the Force be with you,” he says warmly.

“Yeah, _yeah…_ ” I snark back and close the line.

After a swift and ruthless removal of Poor Romeo, I soar off the planet’s surface and start on my way. I almost feel bad as I see him trudge back towards the castle, dragging his boots along the forest floor. Maybe one day I’ll be back here and can make it up to him, but for now?

For now, it’s finally time for some real action.


	2. Chapter 2

I pull up about a parsec away from the cruiser, giving myself plenty of berth to cloak my signal on the approach.

But that’s the thing - there’s nobody else here. The Imperial cruiser hangs ahead amongst the stars, totally still and completely alone. Even the TIE fighters are docked neatly inside its exposed hangar bay, sitting idle instead of running patrols.

I flip on an Imperial comms interceptor and listen for any widely broadcast chatter, tapping my fingers on the dashboard impatiently.

Nineteen full minutes pass before a single peep comes through. It’s some low-level officer announcing a shift change.

Fuck this. I open my encrypted line and type up a message to Morris, letting him know my status. It’s 0400 at headquarters, but maybe he’s awake. Maybe he’s got some sort of update. After sending, I get up and stretch my legs. It’s been a long journey, and this ship is too small.

I pace from the cockpit to the very end of the cargo bay, doubling back past the galley and the sonic refresher. With a swift jump upwards, I grasp the lowest rung of the locked ladder that leads up into the captain’s quarters - which is really just a tiny bunk and a cramped sitting area I’ve converted to additional storage - and hang there. I try for ten pull ups but only manage eight before my grip fails.

As my boots hit the floor panels, I hear a message pinging it’s arrival inside the cockpit.

It’s Morris.

_Too early to the ball? Don’t worry. It’ll start soon. After all, what’s a party without a late arrival and an entourage?_

I chuckle at his coded language, feeling a dull ache in my ribs. I miss him.

Welp. Nothing to do but wait, then. I turn up the volume on my scanners and notification systems and get to work on prepping my weapons.

———

I see the blaster bolt before my radar goes off.

Fresh from jump space, a Lambda shuttle erupts onto the scene in a spray of cannon fire, tailed by one very peculiar-looking ship…

Boba Fett’s ship.

In a state of wonder, I watch the firefight, amazed at the prowess the Imperial pilot holds. The shuttle swoops out of each bolt’s path in perfect time, always managing to dodge at the last second.

It’s impressive enough to be suspicious. Piloting like that from an Imperial just doesn’t make any sense. My satellite picks up an announcement, ordering the deployment of a fighter squadron.

The shuttle approaches the cruiser, hot and fast like lightning, charging forward with no regard for the oncoming TIE fighters. It’s angular wings begin their upward fold as the pilot prepares for a rushed, risky landing.

As quickly as it entered, Fett’s ship departs… almost too quickly. The ovaled dome of his starfighter disappears into hyperspeed just beyond the stern of the cruiser.

I comm Mo and keep my scanner active, listening in for anything telling. He’s probably slipped back to sleep after my message; I doubt he’ll pick up.

Part of me hopes he won’t pick up at all, so that I’m free to tackle this as I see fit. In my line of work, it’s better to ask for forgiveness instead of asking for permission.

Morris opens the line at the last moment. I quickly stamp down my disappointment.

“What’s up?” he yawns, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Any movement?”

“Yeah,” I reply, launching into my account of what just happened.

Mo takes a moment to digest what’s occurred. He nods his head in that quiet, contemplative way he always does and digs the heels of each hand into his eyes.

“Sit tight,” he finally advises. “Keep the interceptor on and focus the dish on the bridge. Wait and listen.”

Why won’t he just let me do my thing? The kid and Din are on that cruiser; they’ve gotta be. I swallow my frustration once more and steel my jaw against the bitter taste. It takes a couple minutes to adjust the communications dish atop the ship, drawing its surveillance area inwards.

The hum of the moving armature is monotone and lulling enough to make me calm down, realizing that Mo’s trying to do _his_ job like I’m trying to do my job. We have the same goal - keep the kid and the bounty hunter out of Imperial hands. We just happen to have very different ideas on the execution.

“Did I wake you up?” I eventually ask, smirking over at Mo. He looks like shit, his hair mussed and sticking up in every direction. Even in the blue haze of the holo I can see the dark bags under his eyes.

He grumbles in response. I can see his surroundings jostle as he moves out of his bedroom and into the kitchen.

“Just keep listening. And keep our line open,” he urges with another small yawn. “I’m making caf.”

I grin in earnest and sit back as the sounds of his kitchen fill my cockpit - running water, clinking spoons, bubbling boilers. It reminds me of simple comforts. If I close my eyes, I can almost smell the fresh grounds steeping.

I hear nothing at all over the Imperial comms. Until…

SIRENS!

“Mo, are you picking this up?” I ask, my excitement unable to be hidden. “The alarm’s blaring.”

“My favorite sound,” he muses, grinning widely over his mug. “Don’t intervene yet. We have no confirmation that our target is on that ship. He could’ve been part of the crew on Fett’s bird.”

I grimace at his pushback. I _know_ the Mandalorian - Din Djarin - is on this cruiser. It’s a feeling so clear in my mind it’s almost like I can touch it.

“He’s gotta be,” I spit back. “This is it, Mo. It’s time for me to jump in.”

“Fuck no. You are not boarding that cruiser,” he orders. “Do you understand me?”

I slip out of the cockpit without a word and suit up, strapping a blaster to each hip and sliding a copycat code cylinder into my pocket. Then, I pull my chest armor over my head, anchoring it into place with hook-and-loop straps across my sides. My gauntlets are charged, their interfaces blinking green as I lock them in place around my forearms.

“Kid — come in!” I hear from up ahead. “I know you’re listening. Do. _Not_. Intervene.”

I make no rush to return to my com array. With a final check of my equipment, I shove my hands into black tech gloves and return to the cockpit.

“I’ve gotta go, Morris.”

I keep my voice even despite my apprehension, and I don’t dare look at him floating in the blue holo. I can spare myself from seeing the disappointment carved across his face, but I cannot avoid hearing his frustrated grunt.

“You are in direct violation of a superior’s orders,” he seethes. I haven’t heard him this upset in a long time. “We cannot send in backup, do you underst—”

I cut the com off and take a deep, measured breath, squeezing my hands into tight fists. I don’t like going against Morris’ wishes, but I know I have to do this.

If the Mandalorian fails… if Din is killed and the Child falls farther into enemy hands… if he’s weaponized, taken advantage of, used as bait…

He is too important to belong to the Empire. My fist tightens.

It’s time to go. I grip my ship’s controls and broadcast an Imperial signature, just in case the bridge is still staffed. My cannons are warmed and ready, their firing buttons unlocked and primed along the control panel.

Like I do before every battle, I take a moment to clear my mind. I focus in on what I can control - the movements of my ship, my finger on the trigger, the breath in my lungs.

To my surprise, nothing happens as I approach the cruiser. The exterior turrets are still active, but they do not fire at me, having recognized my faux signature as an allied craft.

I can’t believe my luck. But, I quickly realize, this means one thing and one thing only: whoever was on that Lambda shuttle has breached the bridge, and every officer on that bridge is dead.

The sirens continue their moaning wail as I land inside the launch tube. The stolen Lambda shuttle lays in a smoking, sparking heap in the belly of the starfighter bay. I can’t help the wicked smirk that curls its way up my face at the sight - and at the thought that it may have been my Mandalorian target who piloted it.

A cursory check of the shuttle’s interior shows no one aboard but a single Imperial scientist, trembling in a set of cuffs and tied to a chair. He’s sweating, his neatly coiffed regulation hairdo falling in damp clumps onto his forehead. I approach with my pistol drawn.

“P-please!” he yelps. “Help me!”

“Who the hell are you?” I ask, blaster trained on him.

“I’m Dr. Pershing — I’m a clone engineer, _please,_ I don’t—”

The clone program ended decades ago, put to bed alongside other war crimes no one dares to consider again. I pocket the intel for later.

“Who captured you?”

“A group of Mandalorians!” he sputters. I raise my eyebrows, which he takes as an invitation to continue. “And - and a N-New Republic marshal.”

“What?!” I press forward, jaw clenched.

Fuck no. I was supposed to be the only agent on this job. This is _karked_ , Morris should’ve told me that I—

“And a mercenary!” Dr. Pershing adds with a blubbering, jagged breath. “Some female merc! I have no idea who she is.”

I collect myself and refocus, taking a moment to roll my shoulders down and back.

“Was one of those Mandalorians wearing a suit of pure, unpainted beskar?” I ask.

The scientist nods, cowering further into his chair, as far from me as possible. I turn and make my way down the ramp.

“Hey — please!” he cries out, his wavering voice bouncing along the shuttle’s walls. “Release me!”

I continue forward without pause. There is no problem in letting a dirty Imp - especially one tied up in cloning - figure it out for himself.

From the launch bay, I make my way down the long and winding hallways, searching for guards and finding none. The halls are eerily empty and echo the incessant droning blast of the cruiser’s siren. Something’s not right. This is a small, light cruiser, sure, but there should be more security than this.

I come across a storage room heavy with the scent of blood and ozone. Dozens of stormtroopers lay dead on the floor, their armor charred and shattered from fatal shots. A wicked thrill fills me at the thought of an Imperial ship with no enemy survivors.

After clearing the storeroom, I finally reach a surveillance bay and slip in my copied code cylinder. I scan through the holofeeds to try and gather some intel.

A feed from down near the brig gives me the confirmation I’m looking for. Just outside the cell doors, Din Djarin and Moff Gideon himself swing at each other - Djarin with a staff and Gideon with a laser sword. It’s clear who will win; the Moff is not a trained warrior.

I watch in rapt attention as Din disarms the Imp, pinning him to the ground with his spear trained just above Gideon’s jugular. Din spares his life - a true shock - and collects his child before dragging Gideon by the collar towards the bridge.

It’s impressive. I know beskar is the only known material unable to be penetrated by a lightsaber, but still… It’s _bold_ , charging head-on into battle against a weapon so deadly it can cut men in half.

I pull out the cylinder and turn swiftly on my heel. I bound through the halls, following the schematic hologram pulled up from my vambrace. As I turn corner after corner, I see the final approach before the turbolift - a skinny footbridge that spans over an open airlock, glowing a faint blue from its magnetic shield. I try not to look down, knowing one misstep would mean slipping into the void, but I can’t help it.

I can’t believe what I see.

Below me, those evil-eyed droid ‘troopers fly through open, raw space to enter the ship from its belly. Ice cold terror shoots through my veins, increasing with every frantic step. I tear my eyes away and look ahead to the turbolift.

The kriffing passenger cabin is still up on the top deck, as far as it could possibly be from me. I sprint forward, slicing the air with my arms, diving for the button as the droids’ feet clang in tandem against the durasteel bridge.

Fuck, fuck, _fuck,_ can this cursed thing move any slower? I see the turbolift indicator light blink its way down each floor as the cabin draws nearer, so irritatingly steady and calm. Simultaneously, the droids begin a stomping march towards me, their heavy footsteps rattling the decking. I can see their metal bodies off-gassing wispy clouds of vapor as they return to temperature inside the cruiser.

With a defiant snarl, I turn my back to the turbolift doors and unholster both pistols, steeling myself as I fire. The blaster bolts ricochet off the droids’ armor, leaving no damage - not even a scuff - as they deflect and mar the walls around them. I feel pure panic shoot up my spine, making my hands prickle with sweat beneath my gloves.

Finally, I hear the soft whoosh of doors opening behind me. I slip inside the turbolift with one swift backward step, ducking behind the cover of the doorframe as the ‘troopers begin to fire in kind.

The door shuts. I exhale loudly, twisting my torso and checking myself for wounds. Not a scratch on me.

Maybe the droids’ programming is just as unfortunate as a Stormtrooper’s aim.

When the doors open on the top level of the cruiser, I run towards the closed blast doors of the bridge. I try my code cylinder but have no luck. In my frustration, I slam my fists against the hard steel doors, shouting for entry.

“Open up! New Republic intelligence! Open up _now_!” I boom, pounding the butt of my blaster against the door.

I hear tense shouting on the bridge, like an argument is taking place. After a few excruciating seconds, the doors swish apart, revealing a room full of quite the cast of characters:

Two female Mandalorians stand with guns poised, their armor painted in shades of blue and so different from Din’s. Their visors are emotionless and perfectly still, analyzing my every move. Beyond them, a female merc with intricately braided hair and a long black coat gives me an appraising look, lowering her blaster only enough to press a button and seal the doors behind me. I recognize her from that day on Tython, when the child was taken. She looks agile, calculating, and seasoned, like the kind of competent assassin I would’ve revered back in my ganging days.

The final surprise is the one I’ve been most curious about - the New Republic marshal. She is clearly a veteran of the old war, judging by her armor and tattoos. She is the only one who fully lowers her weapon. I have no idea how she ended up here in this tangled mess.

“Who are you?” she asks. Her boldness is only mildly shocking.

I look over to Djarin and Gideon. The Moff is slumped in a limp puddle on the floor, with Din’s boot pressed firmly between his shoulder blades. He looks at me with malice in his eyes, even as he tastes the dirty floor of his own cruiser. The baby is tucked safely in the crook of Din’s arm. He blinks his large eyes at me, as if trying to read my intentions and drawing a blank. If only he knew how long I’d been watching him.

I give the marshal a nod.

“Could ask you the same thing,” I respond. “This clearly isn’t your jurisdiction.”

She can’t hide her scowl. “I’m Cara Dune. Nevarro City Marshal. Gonna tell us why you’re here?”

It’s a miracle this woman is not dead from being so brazenly out of line. As I open my mouth to respond, a metallic boom erupts from the other side of the blast doors. The room goes still and silent, listening as the droids batter their fists in sync against our last layer of defense. The Moff grins, wide and blood-hungry.

“You are about to face off with the dark troopers,” he says from the floor, his voice steady and commanding as always. He looks up at Din. “You had your hands full with one. Let’s see how you do against a platoon.”

Din removes his boot from Gideon’s back and places the kid on the floor behind him. I can hear him offer the child a quiet reassurance.

The Imp continues his villainous speech.

“You have an impressive firing squad,” he remarks, shifting around to sit upright. “But I think we all know, after a valiant stand, everyone in this room will be dead…”

The word feels cold and final as it’s punched past his lips.

“...except for me, and the child,” he concludes, rising to his feet. He towers over the baby, only held at bay by the Mandalorian pushing the barrel of his pistol against the Moff’s belly.

The child blinks up at his captor, nothing like the way he blinked at me. He looks unbothered, as if he is sure our standoff will not end well for this vile man.

Gradually, like a thick sheet of rain moving across an arid plain, I feel the energy shift in the room. The kid’s ears twitch towards the window, and he slowly turns.

There, through the massive viewport, we all see it. A single X-wing fighter drops out of lightspeed and swoops ahead towards the cruiser’s launch bay.

I didn’t call for backup. Did Morris do this? My cheeks flare red as I imagine how much shit I’m in. If he would’ve just let me do my thing…

Moff Gideon laughs and faces me.

“Oh, clever girl,” he chuckles, his lips twisted up in a malicious smirk. “You called your precious friends for help and only one showed up. Pathetic.”

With fire in my belly, I spit on his boot and turn away, focusing my aim and attention on the bridge doors. I can feel the others exchanging looks at each other, trying to figure out our next move. The blast doors are bowed in the middle, pushed nearly to breaking by the dark troopers’ battering punches. I know they can’t hold up much longer.

Behind me, I hear the kid fussing and huffing in frustration, as if he’s trying to tell us something.

The realization slams through me like a meteor.

The pilot in the X-wing - it’s Skywalker. _Luke Skywalker!_ I can’t hide my stupid, beaming grin. My heart gallops in my chest, strong and powerful like a victory march. _Luke Skywalker is here_.

The hammering against the blast doors peters down, growing fainter until it‘s finally gone. The female merc wonders aloud why the breach has stopped.

One of the blue-armored Mandalorians moves to the security feed, scrolling through surveillance posts until she sees it… sees _him_.

“A Jedi,” she whispers, her wonderment apparent through the helmet.

In a split-second shuffle, Moff Gideon draws a hidden blaster and aims for the child. Din Djarin leaps forward faster than I’ve ever seen another human move, shielding his charge with his own beskar-clad body. The shot pings off his armor, spraying the ground with a shower of bright sparks.

The Moff grunts and flips the blaster up towards him, pressing the barrel to the soft underside of his chin. The marshal, Dune, moves just as quickly. She swiftly disarms him, sending the gun clattering to the floor as she puts Gideon in binders.

She’s smarter than I thought. The Moff is ex-ISB; his mind is a treasure trove of intel just waiting to be uncovered. I smile as I briefly daydream about how ecstatic the interrogation team will be back at headquarters - those twisted fucks love an excuse to bust out the “advanced” extraction techniques.

“Open the doors,” says Din, nodding towards his fellow Mandalorian.

She bristles, inhaling to counter the request. I can see her body draw up tight, ready to argue.

“Do it,” he commands. His voice is authoritative and leaves no room for debate. “Open the doors. Now.”

The way he says it… so decisive and domineering… it raises the hair on the back of my neck.

With a huff, she thumbs the button and unseals the bridge’s dented blast doors. They rattle and hiss as they open, revealing a hallway full of destroyed dark troopers. At the center of the rubble is the Jedi, cloaked in black robes and holding his laser sword. It thrums with buzzing energy, illuminating the space with a steady green glow.

I can’t take my eyes off of him. For all the shit I talk about the Jedi and the Force and their teachings, I cannot deny the raw power that Skywalker exudes as he disengages his weapon and lowers his dark hood. He radiates calm and confidence - a stoicism similar to Djarin’s and yet so, so different in every other way.

“Are you a Jedi?” Din asks.

Fuck, he really is a box of bolts sometimes, isn’t he? I holster my pistols and shake my head with an exasperated snort. Cara shoots me a look like a poisoned dagger.

“I am,” Skywalker nods.

The baby is up on his feet now, peeking around his father’s leg. He looks timid and shy.

Luke extends a hand out towards the child. His smile is friendly and welcoming despite the violence he unleashed on his way to this very spot.

“Come, little one,” he says.

I again think of Din, of dichotomy. I think of how these two men can be such ruthless warriors and such ardent caretakers at the flip of a coin.

“He doesn’t want to go with you,” Din snaps. He scoops up the child in his arms and spreads his hand wide across his back, spanning its entirety.

“He wants your permission,” Luke counters. He continues on with the typical Jedi spiel about training and discipline, about honing the child’s talents with the Force. I feel an icy weight pull at my stomach.

Luke Skywalker is a war hero. People can choose to believe the stories about turning Vader to the light or not - despite the myth and mysticism, Skywalker is a fighter. That I can respect.

But recruiting a child for Jedi training? I grapple with that. The Jedi have not been peacekeepers for a long time. Maybe they never were - not in this galaxy.

Still, I know he will be safe with Luke. And isn’t that the core of my mission? To keep the kid safe?

Din turns the child to face him in his arms. The baby looks sad, and maybe a little scared. The helmet remains an unfeeling mask, but I can see the turmoil in Din’s body - the slump of his shoulders, the rigidity of his spine, the tension in his legs like he’s ready to run but knows he shouldn’t.

He’s whispering to the kid. Saying goodbye. The baby raises his clawed hand up to the mask, tapping along its metallic surface as if trying to caress him. The room is so still and silent that it’s like nothing else exists.

My heart breaks as I watch.

Din reaches up and lifts the helmet from his head, revealing a face etched with sadness and fear. My heart crumples a bit more, crushed like trampled earth.

“It’s time time go,” the silver Mandalorian says, just above a whisper. He tries to put on a strong face, but I don’t think he knows how. He’s never really had to. “Don’t be afraid.”

 _Don’t be afraid._ I have a feeling the words are for himself as much as they are for the child. He sets the baby down and allows him to waddle over towards Skywalker. Rounding the corner, his R2 unit beeps and buzzes a giddy welcome. The baby smiles.

Din looks like he’s falling apart at the seams.

“May the Force be with you,” Luke nods, leading the kid and his droid out of the bridge and into the turbolift.

I bite the inside of my cheeks. I can’t be the first one to talk - right?

Everyone remains silent for a few moments. I see Din’s eyes grow watery and turn away from him. The whole thing is unsettling and uncomfortable. No one knows what to say or do next, so we all resort to just standing around awkward as _shit_ while we pretend not to hear Din’s shaky breaths.

Cara finally breaks the silence, resting her heavyweight blaster against the holomap table. She cocks her hip to the side, crosses her muscular arms, and quirks an eyebrow so high it disappears behind the dark curtain of her bangs.

“So,” she says, getting everyone’s attention - everyone except Din, who’s retreated to the viewport to watch Luke’s X-wing disappear into hyperspace. The helmet is back over his head.

Cara clears her throat and gives me a long, bold once-over. “You finally gonna tell us who you are?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go! We are diving into the heart of this story. I am so excited to share what’s in store for Reader and Din.

I wring my hands together, cracking my knuckles as Mo absolutely _reams_ me over the com. It’s not productive, this kind of bickering - he knows it, I know it - but I’m pissed. I’m not ready to let it go.

“You deliberately went against orders,” he repeats for the billionth time. “The flagrant disrespect is not cute, and you know it. I promise you, your disciplinary hearing won’t be gentle.”

“Gonna throw me to the fuckin’ rancors, Mo? I did my job,” I spit back, watching out the viewport as the ragtag crew who pirated this cruiser move the crashed Lambda shuttle out of the way. They work well together, moving like a trained team as they connect repulsorlifts to its frame.

Dr. Pershing is still in cuffs, sitting against the wall with his legs tucked up to his chest. It’s a shock he hasn’t tried to off himself yet, as most high-ranking Imperials do once captured. Gideon is beside him, still unconscious.

“The mission’s done,” I assert towards Agent Morris’ blue holo, my voice harsh and final. “The kid’s with us - with Skywalker. He’s safe. And we nabbed a damn Moff _and_ a clone engineer, _alive_.”

Mo releases a quick burst of breath from his lungs, full of frustration and tension. He steeples his fingers in front of his closed eyes.

“You can’t let those Mando girls take the cruiser,” he says. “We need that ship, we need to study its tech, I can’t sit back and—”

“They’re getting the ship. It’s non-negotiable.”

“Non-negotiable my ass. We’re taking it.”

“And what do you suggest I do? Use force?” I scoff. He’s fully fucking lost it. “Isn’t that the whole reason why we’re arguing?”

Mo shakes his head and goes quiet. I see him lean back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. The bags under his eyes are bigger and darker now.

“You were reckless,” he grumbles, exhaling as he sinks down further. “If Skywalker hadn’t shown, you’d have been killed.”

The exhaustion in his voice plucks a delicate string in my heart. I don’t want to put the old man through this kind of stress, and though we bicker like a father and his prodigal daughter, I truly do hate fighting him.

“Maybe,” I shrug and soften my voice. “I had no idea he was coming.”

“Neither did I,” Mo says. “Must’ve heard the kid through the Force.”

The _Force_. Maker, it’s still so bizarre to hear people talk about it like it’s not some fairytale.

“Well, whatever happened, they’re long gone and the kid’s safe,” I nod, crossing my arms across my chest. Outside my ship, I see the Lambda shuttle being hastily slotted back into a mech bay, its broken wings not quite fitting past the door frame. With a gentle push, I engage my thrusters enough to carry my ship into the Lambda’s old spot, making room for Boba Fett to board via the launch tube.

“So what’s next?” I ask with a small smile. I hope my gentle cheeriness might get me out of a truly scathing performance review, though I doubt it. “Any more orders for me to ignore before I head home?”

Mo chuckles despite himself. I smile brighter.

“Nothing formal - but it wouldn’t be a bad idea to offer our Mandalorian an explanation and a ride,” he suggests.

“Oh, come on, Mo,” I play back at him. “Not gonna offer him some old Rebel surplus as a parting gift?”

I can picture it now: _Hey, sorry Luke Skywalker took your kid away and the Empire blew up your ship. Here’s a gently used A-wing._

“No,” he deadpans. “But even that would be a nice upgrade from the Razor Crest.”

“I dunno. I kinda liked the Crest. It suited him,” I shrug, watching Din outside the window. The shoulders that are always held so high and tight are low now, slumped down the front of his chest. It looks like all the air’s been taken out of him.

“Silver and outlawed in at least a dozen sectors?” Mo jokes.

I flash a crooked grin. “More like… dangerous and rugged.”

“Ugh,” Morris groans. “Do _not_ fuck him. You’re already on thin ice as it is.”

“I make no promises.”

Mo grunts out a disgusted sound as I snicker at the holo.

Outside my viewport, I see Fett’s ship rotate on its axis and float into the landing bay. Seeing it up close is an experience. She’s armed to the gills, outfitted with more cannons and attachments than I can even name.

“Gotta go, Mo. We good?”

“Once you drop off Shiny, I expect you back here for a debrief and a review,” he says, back to business again. “You’re not out of trouble.”

I sigh. “Yes, sir.”

“Alright, kid,” Mo says, shifting forward to close the call. “See you soon. Safe travels. And make good choices, please?”

“Yeah, yeah…” I answer, rolling my eyes as tradition dictates. I miss him. I miss home.

I leave the engines idled as I walk down the lowering hatch ramp, hopping off the end just before it makes contact with the polished cruiser floor. Boba Fett emerges from his ship and goes straight over to the female mercenary. They stand a little too close to one another to be anything other than very friendly.

The two female Mandalorians have their helmets off, scowling over their shoulders at Fett as he chats with the other woman.

Djarin just looks lost. Marshal Dune is beside him, roughing up his shoulder like a tough little soldier. Her smile is exaggerated and forced, at total odds with her concerned, knit brows. I make my way over and butt in with a polite clearing of my throat.

“You guys need a ride home?” I offer. If Cara is willing to reign in Din’s mood, I’ll allow another passenger. It’s not my nature to comfort when people get like this - all spacey and awkward and, Maker forbid, _weepy._

“I’m set,” Dune says, nodding towards the Moff and the doctor. “Got a prison transport headed here. I’d like to personally deliver these two.”

“I hear ya,” I smirk. “Quite the catch.”

“Big time,” she says proudly, standing up just a little straighter. The confidence looks good on her, at least when we’re on the same page. “Mando here might need a lift, though. He’s got a bad history with New Republic prison ships.”

Din sighs heavily, enough to make the leather of his bandolier audibly creak.

I put on a friendly smile and will myself not to check him out, now that I’m standing so close. He’s huge, taking up so much space with his broad shoulders and armored chest that it makes me feel petite in a way I’m unaccustomed to. I vaguely wonder what it would feel like to have him on top of me, in the armor.

Stars. I need to cool it.

“It’s the least I can do,” I say politely. “You tell me where you need to go, and I’ll get you there.”

A bitter scoff punches its way out of him, blasted from the vocal modulator into a short pop of grating static.

“What, so you can keep tracking me?” he spits. “No thanks.”

Ouch. It’s hard not to recoil from the rejection.

“My mission’s complete,” I say evenly, masking the embarrassment that collects tight and watery in my throat. “I told you already, the New Republic couldn’t risk—”

“Come with me and Fennec to Tatooine,” Boba Fett interrupts. His spurs jangle as he saunters towards us, and I feel a chill prickle down the length of my spine. Gods, he’s fucking _cool._ Seeing him in person is like seeing a corpse reanimate and promptly fucking kill you - terrifying and wicked awesome.

“Boba has some unfinished business to attend to,” Fennec adds, her eyes sparkling and devilish. She looks at him hungrily.

“Absolutely not,” the redheaded Mandalorian calls out. Her eyes are narrowed, lips drawn into a tight line. She turns toward Din. “You’re the new Mand’alor. The rightful _king_. I _need_ you. Your people need you.”

Din’s helmet dips down. He stays completely frozen, staring at the floor. Her little speech should sound rousing, but it’s filled with malice.

I don’t know anything about Mandalore except that it’s gutted, totally uninhabitable. It’s a scar in the galaxy that no one dares to speak of.

And now Din Djarin is somehow its ruler.

“You’ll stay with me and Koska on this cruiser. We’re headed back to Trask to get the Gozanti and pick up some other Mandalorians. There’s a clan on Utapau, they’re hiding in the cra—”

“No,” Din says firmly, coiling his hands into tight, shaking fists. “I’m not doing this.”

The redhead reels, stomping towards him.

“Yes, you are,” she lambasts. “You don’t get a choice in this anymore. We’re retaking Mandalore. You’re part of it, whether you want to be or not.”

Din grunts in frustration and tears the laser sword hilt from his belt.

“I told you before. It’s yours. I don’t want it,” he says, holding out the weapon towards her. “I don’t want any of this.”

The fury is bubbling behind her eyes, red and violent like molten magma.

“You _know_ that’s not how this works,” she says in a low snarl.

“I don’t _care_ how it works.”

Ah, there it is. He’s put on the bounty hunter voice. He’s officially not fucking around.

“Take it or don’t, but count me out of your plan,” he counters. His tone leaves no room for questioning.

The woman stands down, eyeing up Djarin with a calculating stare.

“Fine,” she relents with vitriol. “Then be prepared for the day when your own brothers and sisters turn on you. Be prepared for the day we claim the throne.”

Din curls his fingers tighter around the hilt.

“You really think Mandalorians will kill one of their own?” he taunts.

The woman chuckles bitterly as she walks away, her lips curling back to show off a mean smirk.

“You’re no Mandalorian,” she spits. “You’re a traitor and a fool.”

Koska - the woman in her clan - turns to walk with her as they exit the hangar bay. I watch Din take several breaths, wrestling back his rage as he sheaths the hilt back on his weapons belt. He turns to me swiftly enough to send his cape fluttering around his ankles.

“Let’s go,” he grunts, pushing past me towards my ship.

Well. Shit. This is gonna be a fucking _ride_ , isn’t it?

———

He hasn’t said a word to me. Boba and Fennec are long gone. Cara and her prisoners have been picked up. We’re definitely not trying to hang around those two Mandalorian women any longer.

My ship is hanging in open space a half-parsec or so away from the cruiser. The navcomp beeps pleasantly in the background, signaling its readiness to accept coordinates to our next destination.

Except that’s the whole problem. The fuming chunk of beskar pacing around my cargo hold won’t tell me where he wants to go.

I push myself off the wall I’ve been leaning against and cross my arms, squaring off to him.

“I’m not gonna keep burning fuel sitting here,” I bark. “We need to move.”

Din huffs and turns on his heel, doubling back again towards the rear of the ship.

“I don’t care where I have to take you, but you’ve gotta give me something,” I double down.

He pauses and shakes his head down at the deck

“I don’t—” he starts, cutting himself off with an exasperated groan. “I don’t have anywhere to go.”

My brows pinch together, and I start to shuffle towards him. He’s so tense, it’s like his body’s made of glass, ready to shatter with one wrong move.

“Sure you do,” I say as gently as my temper allows. “I can take you to Nevarro.”

“No.” He turns around, staring at the decking between our boots. “No,” he repeats.

I feel sorry for him. I nod and ponder for a moment. I could take him somewhere peaceful, perhaps… or offer to help him find a new ship, maybe even arrange for some sort of humanitarian aid to try and offset a portion of the costs.

I know what it’s like to feel trapped, and I know what it’s like to be offered a hand. He’s a good man. I’ve seen it myself, from a distance, over the past few months. He deserves to be helped.

“Okay,” I breathe. “Any opposition to Chandrila, then?”

His head picks up and I can sense the hesitation.

“Don’t worry about your arrest warrant,” I say with an air of nonchalance. “Consider the slate wiped clean.”

“Oh,” Din says, looking away once more. He relaxes down a bit, which I count as a tiny victory. “Thank you.”

“No thanks needed. It’s done,” I dismiss with a wave of my hand. I turn towards the cockpit and smile to myself, catching my lip between my teeth.

I finally get to go home.

My fingers dance along the control panel, plugging in coordinates for Chandrila. I can feel my spirits lift, bright and sparkling like sunshine over water, as I pull the hyperspeed lever.

We both win with this plan. I get to see my friends again, and he gets to turn a new leaf on a planet where I’m relatively certain no one will actively try to kill him.

Once the silence of light speed washes over me, I hear Din settle into the copilot’s seat. We stay silent for a moment, watching the blue tunnel of space swirl around us.

“How long were you tracking me?” he finally asks.

I turn my chair to face him and see him folded over, his forearms resting along the tops of his legs. He’s still not looking at me, only at the floor.

“Found you about two cycles ago, fueling up near the Mid-Rim border,” I tell him, tucking my leg up under my knee. “Zondini Outpost, I think?”

“Bonzini,” he corrects.

“Whatever it’s called,” I chuckle.

“It’s my preferred place to stop,” he continues. “Nobody asks questions. Easy to get in and out.”

I nod, remembering the scene well. The outpost was situated perfectly between two busy crime-heavy sectors, and very easy to miss if you weren’t carefully looking for it. It was a natural place to go searching for a bounty hunter.

“Thought you were trafficking the kid at first,” I admit with an apologetic twist to my lips. “Was about to take you out on sight.”

His head picks up at that and tilts, like a pet trying to understand Basic.

“It’s big business,” I shrug. “But when I saw you wiping little drips of soup off his face and tucking him into his carriage… I dunno. I hesitated.”

The Mandalorian slowly leans backwards, resting against the back of the chair. He starts picking at the seams of his gloves, twirling a loose thread around his index finger.

I realize I’m probably pouring salt in a fresh wound.

“I found out more with time,” I said, trying to push past the topic. “It became less about watching for you causing trouble, and more about watching to _keep_ you from trouble.”

He laughs, but it’s a pained sound, garbled with spite.

“Some job you did,” he retorts.

“I was prepared to save that child if you couldn’t,” I said, steeling myself against his jab. He’s hurt. I get it. “You did it all on your own. You didn’t need me.”

He tears the string from his glove with a ripping pop and flings it onto the floor.

“Glad we can agree on one thing, then,” he gruffs.

Alright. Fuck this.

“Look,” I say, unfolding my legs to stand. “I know you have a lot to process right now, so I’ll ignore your shitty kriffing attitude.”

He tilts the helmet at me again, tracking my movement as I round past him out of the cockpit.

“I don’t have an attitude,” he quips.

I stop mid-step and throw him a look like murder over my shoulder.

“Din,” I say in a warning tone. “You freely decided to c—”

“How do you know my name?” he yells, springing out of his seat. He’s close to me in the doorway, close enough that I can smell the char of laserfire clinging to his flight suit.

I swallow and turn to face him, my face a hair’s breadth away from the helmet.

“Every Imperial officer from here to Hutt Space knows your name.”

I can see my breath fog his visor. He’s strung painfully tight, his muscles coiled like a predator ready to strike. I’m terrified to make the wrong move, to provoke him here in unreachable lightspeed.

I don’t want to have to kill him. I wonder if I’d even be capable of it.

“You’re lying,” he growls. “Say it.”

He presses further towards me, backing me up against the wall. I’m fully caged in, surrounded by metal on all sides. My heart gallops behind my ribs, bringing blood and heat to my cheeks.

“Say it!” he shouts.

“It’s true,” I say, throat dry. “They have your name and scans of your face. From the refinery.”

Din stays perfectly still, perfectly blank. I can’t make out his breathing, and I realize I’ve stopped breathing myself. Time hangs suspended over us, frozen and crackling like the split-second before lightning strikes.

“Fuck,” he huffs, and backs away from me with a stomp. He returns to his pacing, plodding back and forth through the ship like a wounded animal.

“How do you know this?” he grunts, the words punctuated by heavy footfalls. He’s rattling the siding of the cargo hold, the sound echoing into a grating cacophony against the stark silence of hyperspace.

“I’m in intelligence,” I raise an eyebrow. Maker, he can be so dense. “It’s my job.”

“So you have Imperial informants?”

“Yeah?” I snark, utterly flummoxed by his line of questioning. Isn’t all of this painfully obvious? “Where are you going with this?”

He stops and stares at the floor again.

“I have no idea,” he says quietly, though the softness of his voice retains a hard edge from his modulator. “I don’t know where I’m going with anything. Not anymore.”

“Din...” I step closer to him, lowering my voice to match his. “You don’t have to have it all figured out right now.”

He tilts the helmet up to look at me. I search hard for a sign of his brown eyes beneath the visor but come up empty. I know they’re sad. I know he’s still trying to lift the weight of what happened today, to find his balance and hoist himself back up.

“Are you hungry?” I ask.

Might as well move on to questions he’ll know the answer to.

“Yes,” he replies, clearing a subtle croak in his voice. “I haven’t eaten in two days.”

“Okay,” I say in a quiet lull. “Do you like soup?”

Maker, this man - this formidable warrior, who kills and conquers like he’s made for it - is so fragile right now that it makes me feel unsteady, like my own legs may give out beneath me.

But why? Why do I feel like this?

“I do,” he answers. “Thank you.”

I offer a small smile and turn towards the galley. Frozen containers of pre-portioned soup come out of the conservator and go into the warming cabinet.

As I listen to the hum of the machine, I find myself also staring at the floor. To my surprise, I find an answer there.

I feel like this because I’ve _been_ him. I too have lost everything and had to forge a new path - more than once.

I feel an obligation to help him, to comfort him, because I see myself reflected off the mirrored planes of his armor.

The reheating machine chimes, announcing our warm meal. I remove Din’s bowl first and extend it out to him, watching the steam curl between us.

It’s time for me to repay my debt to the universe.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It gets a little spicy at the end. Just a little!

I can sense his hesitation even through the layers of armor. He sits with his spine rigid, as if it too is made of beskar.

“Your soup’s gonna get cold,” I suggest between slurps of my own meal. “Don’t let me stop you.”

He shifts an inch, enough to bring his hands closer to the disposable bowl, before freezing again.

“I’ve seen your face,” I shrug, trying to downplay a phrase that I’m sure would’ve sent I’m him into a tailspin just a galactic standard week ago. “Nothing to hide here.”

Din lets out a silent stream of breath, only noticeable from the way his pauldrons glint with the motion. He taps his fingertips against the slide-out galley table a few times, and then reaches up for the bottom edge of his helmet.

I know what he looks like, but I still can’t help the way my blood sings when he reveals his face. He’s exhausted, completely wrung dry by the day’s events, and he is still so strikingly gorgeous. He refuses to make eye contact, so I turn my attention back to the dregs of my soup.

“I’m not your enemy,” I say gently over the lip of the bowl.

Din hesitates, studying the meaning of my words as he studies the contents of his soup.

“I know that,” he replies, meeting my eyes as he brings the bowl to his mouth. He takes one large gulp and pauses before diving back in, drinking it down hungrily.

I smile to myself and do some quick mental math. I’ve got enough frozen soups and dried meats to offer him a second helping at mealtimes, plus a few indulgences on hand - some foil-wrapped chocolates and a half bottle of blackbark-aged whiskey.

Din sets the empty container down and wipes his chin with the heel of his hand.

“I’ll get you another,” I smirk. I swear I can see the corner of his mouth twitch up in gratitude.

At the counter, I make quick work of unsealing and heating another portion of soup. While it comes to temperature, I pull out the whiskey and pour generously into a set of matching cups.

Back at the table, the color is slowly starting to return to Din’s face. The deep vertical crease along his forehead grows shallower as he picks up his new bowl and sips, much slower this time.

“This,” I present the tin cup to him with a flourish, “will knock you on your ass. Proceed with caution.”

Din hums and flits his eyes from the whiskey to me.

“How long are we traveling for?” he asks.

“Twenty-three hours until I need to refuel. That’ll take two to three hours, accounting for system cooldown. Then another twelve hours ‘til home.”

He nods and picks up his cup, sniffing the brown liquid before taking a tentative sip. His eyes go wider, and he sips again with enthusiasm.

“Don’t chug that one,” I warn with a wink. “Too good not to savor.”

I take my own drink and settle further into my seat. The liquor is sharp and smokey on my tongue, with a lingering toasted sweetness. I watch the Mandalorian as he alternates between his two liquids, how his mood softens to something much more palatable.

“You usually travel this quickly? No breaks?” he asks.

“I don’t like to waste time.”

He holds eye contact for a moment, long enough to feel a little unusual. I realize that with the mask, he’s probably never had to worry about revealing where his gaze lands. I like that. I like that it makes him so transparent.

“Thank you,” he eventually mutters between mouthfuls of soup. “I — apologize. For earlier.”

The humility is cute on him, like a puppy with its tail between its hind legs. He’s nervous, but still manages to look at me unwaveringly as he asks for forgiveness.

“S’alright,” I wave off. “Apparently even Mandalorians get hangry.”

“Hangry?”

“Yeah,” I laugh. “What, you’ve never heard of that? It’s when you’re so hungry that you become a raging asshole.”

He nods, hiding behind his whiskey cup. “Oh. Then I’m sorry for being hangry.”

We both know his anger is far more complicated than an empty stomach. But I also know that we are both too tired and too unfamiliar with each other to dive deeper right now. A silent look of understanding passes between us.

“What do you do on long stretches?” I ask. “Anything to pass the time?”

Din darts his eyes away, a faraway look overtaking his features. He hides his face behind the whiskey cup again and drinks deeply. When it comes down, he looks sad - sadder than I’ve seen him today.

Shit. _Shit_ , I shouldn’t have asked him that. He probably spent that downtime playing with the kid. I’m a whole ass idiot and a heartless bitch for not thinking of that.

“Din, I’m sorry, I—”

“No, it’s — fine, I just…” he squeezes his jaw, making the muscle and bone pop beneath his skin. “I don’t really remember what I used to do. Before the kid. Maybe I didn’t do anything.”

I let him sit in his silence for a moment, watching cautiously. I don’t know what I’ll do if he starts to lose it. I want to help him - to comfort him - but I don’t know what he wants or needs. I pray the food and drink are enough, at least for now. I wonder how he would react if I reached for him, if I tried to hold his hand.

“What do you do?” he asks quietly. I can see the gears turning in his head and a glint of curiosity beneath the sadness.

“Whatever I feel like,” I answer, swirling the liquor in my cup. “Studying my briefs, watching old holos, sleeping. Getting rip-roaring drunk.” I raise my glass and throw back the rest of its contents in one large swig.

“Thought you said not to chug it,” he deadpans.

“I did, didn’t I?”

Din raises his own cup and drains it, wincing through the last drops.

“Since we’ll be spending some time aboard, I’ll give you the run-down,” I tell him, getting up to grab the bottle from the galley. “The ‘fresher’s across the way over there. The shower’s sonic, so wet a rag if you need a good scrub. On your left, next to the med cabinet, is the escape pod. The ship doesn’t have a mech droid, so if something happens to me, you’re on your own.”

Din nods as I refill his cup.

“Sleeping quarters are up the ladder,” I continue. “There’s only one bed, so we can alternate schedules. Are you tired?”

He shrugs and takes another sip of his drink. “Maybe after this.”

I chuckle and sit back down at the tiny table. The metal creaks under my forearms as I lean against them.

“I don’t have any spare clothes that’ll fit you, but maybe we can pick something up at the fueling station.”

“I’ll sleep in the armor,” he says.

I blink at him for two seconds then bark out a laugh. His cheeks flush red.

“Maker, you Mandalorians are fucking wild. _Sleeping_ in your armor? Are you high?” I can’t stop laughing, enough that I can see Din start to subtly mirror my hysteria.

“What?!” his composure breaks, tumbling into a small laugh. “It’s my— it’s part of who I am. I’ve done it many times.”

“Dank farrik, you’ve gotta change my sheets when you wake up,” I giggle. “It’s the least you can do for dragging Imperial filth into my bed.”

“Imperial filth comes off in the sonic.”

Oh, stars. He’s got jokes when he’s a few fingers of booze deep. I crack up harder, imagining him standing fully armored inside the shower.

“Go to bed,” I playfully chide, shooing him out of his seat. “Take the bottle with you if you want. You’ve had a rough day.”

Din replaces the helmet and grabs the glass jug by the neck, tucking it up under his arm. The liquid sloshes loudly with the movement. Suddenly, he grows quiet and hesitates, turning towards me before stretching up to reach for the ladder.

“Thank you, again,” he says, so ardently that I can feel my heart squeeze. “For the hospitality. I didn’t expect this.”

I nod and offer a shy smile.

“It’s nothing,” I assure him. “Sleep well.”

With a swoosh and a metallic clatter, he pulls the ladder down and ascends, slipping into the darkness of my quarters.

I’m going to let him sleep as long as he needs.

———

I start to worry after his twelfth consecutive hour alone. Maybe I shouldn’t have sent him up there with the whiskey.

Is he okay? Maker, it’s so _quiet._ I can’t hear him snoring, can’t hear the bedroom holoprojector playing anything, can’t hear him crying — thank the stars for that. I can’t help the cold-bellied feeling that something is wrong.

On light feet, I ascend the ladder and squint into the pitch black of my room. After a few seconds, my eyes adjust, blinking his sleeping form into focus.

He’s sprawled out on his side, tucked between the blankets, with a pillow clutched between his arm and his chest. The armor is discarded in a pile at the foot of the bed, set atop his rumpled cape. He lays there, as bare as I’ve ever seen him, in just his canvas shirt and pants.

He looks peaceful. His eyelids flutter softly with a passing dream, and his back expands and contracts steadily with even, deep breaths.

I turn around and try to leave as quietly as I entered.

The man hasn’t known peace in a long time. I won’t be the one to interrupt it.

———

Not too long after, he descends from the upper cabin looking lighter. The armor is back on, helmet included, but he’s left the cape and his weapons upstairs.

I put down my datapad and swivel the pilot’s chair around. The motion makes me dizzy, its momentum trying to carry my heavy head into orbit.

“Hey,” he greets. The modulation is slightly jarring now that we’ve talked for so long without it. My brain tries to kick back into gear and respond.

“He lives,” I joke weakly, rising up from my seat. I can see that he’s cleaned the armor somehow, the scuff marks and soot of battle wiped clean.

“Sorry. I needed more sleep than I realized,” he shrugs, looking towards his boots.

“It’s alright,” I yawn, melting into a sly grin once it passes. “Are you feeling better?”

“Your bed is, umm,” he breaks off, awkwardly leaning his weight into his forearm, pressed against the door frame. “It’s very comfortable.”

“Psshh,” I scoff tiredly. It feels like my mouth is too sluggish to keep up with my brain when he’s standing like that, all stretched out and lean. “On this piece of shit bird? No.”

I bury the thought of him looking so warm and relaxed in my bed, of how it would’ve felt to have his arm slung over my waist instead of that pillow.

“How far are we from the fuel station?”

I crane my neck to the navcomp and squint hard. “Little under eight hours until we drop out of lightspeed.”

“Go sleep. I’ll pilot us in,” he offers.

I bark a laugh and move past him towards the ladder. My blood sparks like static electricity as our bodies nearly brush together.

“No kriffing way. I might talk a lot of shit, but nobody flies this ship but me.”

I hear a soft chuckle from beneath his helmet.

“Fair enough.”

I start my climb up the ladder, enjoying the cool press of metal in my grip.

“If there’s even a speck of Imperial filth in my bed, I’m throwing you out the airlock,” I joke towards him.

Din laughs in earnest. The sound is rich and full, and makes my head spin again.

“Sweet dreams,” he calls out from beneath me.

I pull myself up into my quarters and try to shake off the sound of his laughter. I take stock of how he left things:

The bed is made, its sheets and blankets tucked militantly around each corner. He left his cape folded neatly atop a storage crate, with his large rifle and beskar staff propped up against it. Also on the crate are his smaller pistols, some magnetic grav charges, and the darksaber itself. I run my fingers along the hilt’s geometric grooves and admire it for its power and beauty. It is unlike any lightsaber I’ve ever seen - though I haven’t seen too many - and feels very distinctly Mandalorian.

The bottle is missing a little more booze than I expected, but I’m glad he got to enjoy it. I briefly wonder if I could taste him if I pressed my lips to its open neck, if he’d left behind a whisper of himself.

I strip down to comfortable sleep clothes and peel back the tucked blanket, easing myself into bed. It feels strange, knowing that he was in here, stripped of all weapons and defenses, floating through his dreams.

I readjust myself and settle in, wondering what could possibly make him think this bed is even close to comfortable. It’s standard-issue military junk, durable and utilitarian, cheap to produce in mass quantities.

I sigh and twist onto my side, swinging the second pillow over my body. Like Din, I wedge it between my chest and my arm and bury my face in it, muffling a long groan.

I know I shouldn’t, but I’m too tired to fight it. I allow myself to breathe deeply, to pick up a remnant of his scent on my sheets, and dream of his arm slung heavy over my waist.

———

I probably should’ve told him to stay on the ship. While I do everything I can to stay under the radar, Din is the total opposite. He is very recognizable and impossible to miss. The silver beskar is like a beacon for all sorts of attention, including this fellow Guild hunter currently talking his ear off.

“So where ya been, Mando?” he bellows, his grin teetering the line between smile and sneer. “Gotta be honest, can’t say I’m too keen on havin’ ya back anytime soon. ‘M finally gettin’ some _gooood_ pucks.”

“Been busy,” Din retorts in a clipped grunt.

We’re walking back from the small general store to the fueling bay, our purchases wrapped neatly in my pack. Din didn’t find any suitable clothing, but he did manage to pick up a spare toothbrush and some topical pain salve. I’ve made a mental note to ask about it, once we’re far away from this rambling asshole.

“Well whatever ya been up to, seems the Imps are done lookin’ for that green lil’ fella,” he says, still in step with us. “Pulled the bounty off the network this mornin’.”

The man’s gold-capped teeth glint under the bright lights of the fuel station. Din keeps his course steady and doesn’t give a single hint that anything’s affecting him. I subtly pick up my pace, trying to get us back aboard my ship as quickly as possible without all-out running from this vile man. He slips just a few steps behind us.

“Wanna know somethin’ real interesting though, Mando?” he leers to our backs. I can hear him shuffle faster to try and catch up.

From the corner of my eye, I see Din’s fingers reflexively reach for the handle of his blaster pistol, sitting at the ready on his hip.

“They mighta pulled the kid’s bounty, but they _tripled_ the price on your head,” he growls, pulling his own weapon from the folds of his cloak.

Before he can even aim, Din’s already whipped backwards and shot a hole through the man’s chest. His body crumples limp and lifeless onto the duracrete floor. The blaster wound releases tiny wisps of smoke, filling the air with the smell of burnt clothing and meat.

“We need to leave,” Din says tightly.

I look down the path towards my ship. A droid still has the fuel line attached, pumping steadily away.

“We can’t,” I snap at him. “Ship’s not ready.”

“It’s gonna have to be,” he bites back under his breath. “Come on.”

Din picks up into a sprint and bounds for the service droid, uncoupling the fuel line from the body of the ship. The droid screeches angrily as raw fuel sprays up into the air and splatters across the floor.

I lower the ramp, hopping in before it touches the ground. I can hear muffled shouting behind us as other patrons and station crew see the dead body and our attempt at escape.

In the cockpit, my hands fly across the controls, engaging preflight as quickly as I can. I’ve got a trick or two up my sleeve for a quick getaway, and thank my lucky stars for the ship’s top-of-the-line cloaking capabilities.

As soon as I’m out of here, nobody will be able to find us. The ship is a ghost, untraceable and unremarkable in its outward appearance. I hear Din clamber up the ramp and quickly seal it shut, locking down the pressure seal.

“Go!” he shouts.

I check the rear observation feeds and see a small group of other hunters and mercs readying their weapons, aiming down scopes to try and take us out. The hull won’t take more than cosmetic damage from their ground fire.

I grin wickedly as I slam the thruster controls forward, lifting my ship up and out of the station entrance. The front line of mercs stumble backwards, pushed off-balance by the blast.

“Wanna return fire?” I shout back at Din, who fights against the crushing G-forces to buckle himself into the copilot’s seat.

“No. We’ll blow the whole station,” he grunts. “Just get out of here!”

“Fiiiine,” I grumble through my waning grin, plugging in coordinates for Chandrila.

The fuel meter isn’t full - not even close - but it’ll get us there.

With a gentle dip, we slip into the calm of hyperspace, safe from the sudden onslaught.

“I should’ve stayed on the ship,” Din groans, sighing back into the seat’s leather. He unclips his safety harness and takes the helmet off, pulling fresh air into his lungs.

“No shit, Shiny. You’re hard to miss.”

“How are we on fuel?” he asks, wiping a sheen of sweat off his brow with the gloved palm of his hand.

“Got enough to get to Chandrila,” I confirm, shifting to dig through my backpack. I take out Din’s toothbrush and muscle cream and toss it to him. “I’ll keep an eye on it. Might need to divert power from some auxiliary sources to be safe.”

Din nods and pockets his goods, then twists at his waist with a pinched groan.

“You good?” I ask.

“Fucking — ugh. I pulled something in that saber fight yesterday,” he says in a pained huff. “Just made it worse with that shoot-out.”

I cross my arms and appraise him. He’s reaching blindly for a spot between his shoulder blades, fingers grappling under his cape to try and massage some comfort into the strained muscles.

“Who was that guy?” I ask. “Bounty Hunter’s Guild?”

“Yeah,” he says with a sigh, giving up on his fruitless twisting. “Fellow Guildsmen have never been too fond of me.”

“That’s what happens when you’re good at your job,” I smirk.

Din furrows his brow and half-nods. “I guess so.”

He starts to unwind his cape, looping it over his head with a grimace.

“Need some help?” I ask.

“I’ve got it,” he grunts softly. “Just need to—”

He reaches up and around his shoulders, unhooking his back plate from its connection points on his pauldrons with a swift downward jerk. It slides down his back and tips over the edge of the chair with a loud clang. He murmurs a curse as he curls forward, digging his fingertips under the back neck of his shirt.

I stand up to try and convince him he needs help.

“If you’d just let me—”

“I’ve got it,” he asserts, his face flushing red with the effort.

I huff and stab my open palm in his direction. He stills for a moment and stares at it.

“Gimme the gel,” I say firmly, leaving no room for argument. He blinks up at me, his eyes flitting between my hand and my eyes. I make an exaggerated grabbing gesture.

“Come on,” I push. “I’m not gonna sit here and watch you flail around like an idiot.”

Din harrumphs and straightens up, muttering to himself as he digs the tube out of his pocket. He sticks it in my hand unceremoniously.

“Was that so hard?” I ask with a condescending smirk. He shoots me a grumpy look. “Turn around.”

Din swivels his legs to one side of the chair and waits while I squeeze some minty-green gel onto my fingers. The smell is sharply medicinal and stings my nose.

I try and center myself before I touch him, reigning in any sparks of silly, girlish yearning. This is purely medical - a soldier patching up another soldier after a skirmish. Nothing more.

“Alright hold still,” I tell him.

His skin feels even hotter to the touch than I anticipated, flushed and feverish under his shirt. Din hisses at the contact.

“Cold,” he complains.

I hum sympathetically and spread gel over the firm plane of muscle between his shoulder blades, then draw some of it upwards to the base of his neck. Din makes a sound low in his throat - some deep, pleased sound that stirs up liquid heat in my belly.

“That better?” I say quietly, afraid of the tone of my own voice.

“It is,” he says in a bassy rumble. “I, um — could you — maybe go lower?”

I thank the Maker he’s turned away from me, so he doesn’t have to see the fierce blush that screams across my face.

“Uh, y-yeah,” I say, then clear my throat to kill its wobbling. “Lower.”

I put a little more gel on my fingers and reach down into his shirt again. My forearm gets lodged against the back of his head, and stars, his hair is so wonderfully soft against the thin skin of my inner arm. The angle is difficult. I struggle to swipe my fingers across a dry spot over his spine, but can barely get the pressure I need with my movement so restricted.

“Is this low enough?” I ask, my mouth close enough to the back of his head to gently flutter his brown hair.

“No, uh — just — hold on,” he says, pulling forward as I draw my hand up out of his shirt.

Din’s hands move to his pauldrons. He unclips them, along with his chest plate, and sets them on the floor between his boots. Only his shirt, gloves, and gauntlets remain on his upper body.

Slowly, he draws up the bottom hem of his shirt, revealing a wide span of golden flesh. His back is scarred, criss-crossed with several silvery-pink marks. The breadth of his shoulders and rib cage taper in to a trim waist, dusted with dark brown hair down the front of his lower abdomen.

I try to swallow but find I’ve momentarily forgotten how to do that. He’s gorgeous - unfairly so. I can’t believe I’ve been tailing him for so long and never saw a sliver of his skin.

I press my fingers into the tight knot of muscle on either side of his spine, just below where my hand could last reach. He muffles a contented grunt as I work the gel into his skin, rubbing strong circles that make him subtly arch into my touch.

I hope he can’t feel my racing heart through my fingertips, or hear how I seem to have also forgotten how to breathe.

“Fuck,” he says low and smooth. I feel it rattle up the bones of my hands. “Feels good.”

Dank farrik, he’s trying to kill me. I want to pull my hands away, afraid of what will happen if I don’t stop. I want him badly - so much it’s dizzying - but I can’t act on it. Not now, not while he’s mourning like this, not when he’s at such an uncertain crossroads in his life.

I can’t complicate this for him - or for me. He’s wanted by the Empire. I can’t bring that into my life, not when my duty is to lurk undetected in the shadows, killing the remnant’s influence to make way for our New Republic.

I stop my ministrations and step back, wiping my hands on my pants leg. Din pulls down his shirt and turns to face me. He looks relaxed and peaceful again, like when he was stretched out in blissful sleep on my bed.

Before he can thank me, or tell me I’m good with my hands, or say some other wonderful thing I’ll replay over and over again in my head, I exit the cockpit.

“Gonna get in the sonic,” I say over my shoulder, beelining it for the refresher.

“Oh,” I hear him say. “Okay.”

I seal myself inside and hang my head over the sink. Kriff, I wish this stupid thing had running water, or some other way to drown out sounds.

I turn on the shower’s control panel, filling the air with sonic waves and pulses meant to shake loose dirt and oil. It’s barely over a hum.

I sink onto the floor and shove my hand down my pants, still sticky with remnants of gel. I’m slick between my thighs, aching with need.

As I bite my tongue and touch myself on the floor of my ship, I think of Din’s back - wide and warm and strong - and how it would feel to dig my nails into it in my bed.


	5. Chapter 5

I try to keep my distance from him as much as I can for the remainder of our journey, but it’s impossible in a ship this small. Every time I turn around, he’s there.

And he looks so _good_.

He keeps finding ways to crowd into my space, always standing too close in our cramped confines. I want to hide from him - to burrow into the shame of touching myself while he was just outside the door - but he’s always _right there._

The fuel meter beeps in the cockpit, giving me an excuse to walk away from him. We’re burning through it faster than I anticipated. I frown at the display, nervously tapping my knuckles against the console.

There’s not a lot left to turn off. I’ve already powered down the ship’s cold food storage and all the weapons systems. The comms automatically power down in hyperspace since they’re useless above sublight. All that’s available are the climate controls and the lighting - two things I’m not quite willing to do without.

I turn around to ask which fresh hell Din would prefer - the cold or the dark - and he’s already standing close behind me, totally silent.

“Shit!” I mutter, reeling backwards until the control panel digs into my lower back. “You’re quiet. Scared me.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing to get too worried about,” I say, peeking back at the display. “Not yet, anyway.”

He doesn’t move back from me, and his proximity makes me feel like my skin is covered in fire bugs.

“Question, though,” I start, slipping out between his body and the console. “Would you rather spend the next four hours in the cold or in the dark?”

He blinks at me.

“This is my fault,” he says with a sigh. “I shouldn’t be the one to pick.”

“Cold or dark, Djarin?” I press, waving off his self-deprecation.

Din considers the options and chews on his lower lip. I look away to avoid staring at it, pinched pink between his straight teeth.

“Dark,” he answers. “I’ve got the helmet. The IR sensor will work well for me. What about you? Do you have any gear?”

“Yeah,” I nod. “Think I’ve got a light stick somewhere.”

“Good,” he says, slipping out of the cockpit to fetch his helmet.

I patter back towards cargo and dig through a crate filled with survival gear. Underneath heaps of reinforced paracord and emergency water filters, I find a dusty old light stick. I thumb the dial and watch it flicker to life, its blue light muted by the bright overheads.

“Alright, ready?” I call out. Din shouts the affirmative. His voice has returned to its gritty modulated state.

At the power control box, I flip open the panel door and click off the appropriate fuses one by one. The lighting in the cabin cuts out in cascading chunks, swallowing me in darkness. The blue light stick provides just enough light to see in front of me.

“Still plenty of ambient light up in the cockpit,” I hear Din say.

He’s right. The glowing blue tunnel of hyperspace provides a calming wash of colored light in the space, enough to keep an eye on the ship’s few analog controls.

He keeps the helmet on as he sits down in the captain’s chair.

“What’re you doing?” I bristle, nudging the corner of the chair with the toe of my boot.

He cocks the helmet towards me and lets it trail down to my foot, perched against the seat’s side. I can practically feel his arched brow.

“Running a diagnostic,” he says evenly.

“You think I haven’t done that already?”

“It’ll help.”

Din runs his fingers along the keypad, typing in commands. I roll my eyes as he pulls up a data readout and studies it, taking his sweet time.

“You don’t like anybody sitting at the wheel, huh?” he muses.

“What do you think?” I scoff, plopping down into the co-pilot’s seat.

I don’t want to admit it, not even subconsciously, but the sight of him in his full armor, looking so competent and calm at the helm of my ship, is stirring some latent desire in me. The image flashes searing hot and laser fast in my mind - of me straddling him in that chair, my head thrown back as he ruts up into me.

A series of hisses and clangs ring through the hull, giving me a borderline heart attack. Din closes the diagnostic report and pivots the chair back to me.

“What did you just do?” I spit, lurching upright in my seat.

He leans back and crosses his arms, looking very pleased with himself.

“Blast doors pull power. Not a lot, but enough to help our odds at making it back,” he quips. He lifts his foot, nudging the corner of my seat with his boot, just like I did. “I disengaged all of them. Ship’s wide open.”

The annoyance deflates out of me slowly, like a balloon leaking air. I relax back into my chair and wrap my hand around Din’s ankle, moving it from my seat back to the deck.

“Great,” I snark. “Now you get to listen to me take a piss.”

I see his shoulders jostle with quiet laughter. The motion cascades waves of diffused blue light down the silver slopes of his armor.

“I can head upstairs if you need privacy,” he offers.

I stand and nod, turning to exit the cockpit. It’s much darker in the main belly of the ship. I struggle to see my surroundings, but thankfully don’t really need to. This old ship’s layout is committed to memory, its every bend and quirk as familiar to me as my own body.

Din pulls down the ladder and ascends, keeping any childish comments to himself as I pad into the open refresher.

Kriff, it’s fucking awkward. He can probably hear everything I’m doing with that Maker-forsaken helmet on, what with all its fancy bounty-hunting modifications. I finish my job in the refresher like it’s a race, moving fast in order to get the embarrassment over with.

When I’m done, I shove the light stick under my armpit and ascend the ladder to offer Din a turn. It’s even darker up in my quarters than anywhere else on the ship. As I pull myself upwards into the room, my light stick falls from its place under my arm and clatters to the deck below.

I grumble a curse under my breath and step blindly into the bedroom. I can’t see a fucking thing, and can’t hear Din anywhere. Maker, does he have to be so quiet all the damn time? Just as I open my mouth to call out for him, my foot catches on something large and unfamiliar on the floor. My balance gives way and I tumble helplessly towards the deck.

A split second before I hit the ground, two wide, gloved hands catch me - one wrapping around the front of my chest, and the other clutching my hip. It feels as if my heart maintains its forward heave and falls through his leather-wrapped fingers to the floor, leaving my body behind.

When Din lifts me upright, my blood is roaring between my ears. Everything is heightened in the darkness - the soft sounds of his breath beneath the helmet, the musky, masculine smell radiating from his cloth base layers... He shifts his hands respectfully to my waist, steadying me in place.

“Are you okay?” he says, his altered voice scraping some low register that licks white heat through my chest.

“I’m fine,” I breathe, placing a hand on his armored chest. He continues to hold onto my waist.

“You tripped right over my boot,” he says, giving me a playful squeeze.

“I can’t see shit up here.”

Din hums, then removes his hands from me. My skin is burning again, prickled with a rolling heat that spreads outward from where he touched me. I hear him shuffling around ahead of me, and suddenly I feel his arms pull up over my head.

“What are you doing?” I ask, recoiling from the strange sensation of something hard touching the very top of my scalp.

“Stay still,” he chides. And his voice… oh, _oh,_ he’s taken the helmet off.

Slowly, he lowers it over my head, giving it a small twist once it’s seated flush against my skull. It’s too big on me; it wobbles as I turn my neck to look at his heads-up displays, rapidly blinking all sorts of data.

He’s got it on the infrared setting, like he said he would. I can see everything in the room, and standing just before me, I can see Din. The temperature reading makes him glow a bright orange, with bits of red where he runs hot - around his head and neck, under his arms and between his legs.

I blush, and then blush harder knowing he had a visual clue of how hot I’ve been running for him.

“You look good in it,” he says.

My face curls up into a flirty smile at the praise. I’m glad he can’t see it, and momentarily envy him for being able to hide his emotions whenever he wants.

“How can you tell? It’s dark.”

I can hear my voice both echoing back towards me under the helmet and being amplified outside of it. The modulation makes me sound cool and tough. I smile wider.

“I have excellent vision,” he says, making his way to the ladder. “A perk of the helmet. I never damaged my eyes.”

Huh. It makes perfect sense. I think of all the times I should’ve been wearing protective eye gear, gazing upon the galaxy’s bright suns and blinding supernovas, or running through the smoke and shrapnel of the battlefield.

Once Din slips past the floor’s opening to make his way towards the ‘fresher, I flop down onto the bed. My head feels so heavy, and not just because of the beskar it’s currently holding up. The padding on the inside is thick with his scent - an earthy smell, like soil and pine, that curls deliciously into my lungs. It makes me feel dizzy, like I’ve huffed some sort of illicit drug.

I hear Din scaling back upstairs and pull myself together, straightening up to sit on the edge of the mattress. He clears the ladder with ease and walks toward me with my dropped light stick in hand.

I nearly choke on air when he sits down beside me on the bed, the thin mattress dipping under his weight. I scramble to take the helmet off, feeling a little off-balance being able to see him glowing like wildfire next to me.

“Here,” I thrust the helmet out towards him. He sets it on the floor next to the light stick instead of putting it back on.

“Not into it?”

I smooth down my hair and blink rapidly, trying to bring the room into focus. It’s illuminated a soft blue now - gentle and calm, unlike the rapidly spiraling tunnel of hyperspace.

“A little claustrophobic,” I remark. “You wear it very well, though.”

Fuck, _why_ would I say that? I cringe to myself and turn away, thankful that he didn’t put the cursed thing back on to see my ridiculous blushing.

Din hums again, in that quiet, reserved way he always does.

“Should we go back to the cockpit?” I suggest. “It’s brighter in there.”

My eyes dart back to the light stick on the floor, then land squarely on Din. He’s looking at me like there’s something weighing on his mind, like he wants to say it but doesn’t know how. He takes a breath and starts nervously picking at his gloves again, searching for loose threads along the seams.

“I’d rather stay up here,” he admits quietly, staring down at his hands. “It’s just that — I dunno — there’s something about hyperspace. Reminds me of the kid. Of Grogu.”

I swallow over a knot lodged in my throat and pivot towards him. I can feel his sadness roiling just below the surface, how he’s trying so hard not to crack open.

“We always used to sit in the cockpit together,” he reminisces. His fingers finally find a loose thread and start to pull. “He liked to play with the Razor Crest’s hyperdrive shaft. It had this round little ball on the top. It was his favorite.”

Din lets out a bittersweet chuckle and fishes around in his pocket, procuring a smooth metal ball. He holds it gingerly in his hand, rolling it around his open palm.

“Is this it?” I ask, moving closer. Din extends his hand out to me, an invitation to pick up the kid’s makeshift toy.

“It is.”

With gentle fingers, I pluck the ball from Din’s hand and twist it, admiring the tiny groove bisecting its two hemispheres, and the small threaded hole where it screwed off the driveshaft. I place it back in Din’s hand and take hold of his fingers, lightly folding them inwards to clutch it in his fist. I feel him leaning towards me, how the mattress bends with his shifting weight.

“You’ll give it to him. Next time you see him,” I say quietly.

A slight grimace flashes across his face. “Do you think I’ll see him again?”

“You will,” I promise, sealing it with a tight squeeze of his hand.

I let go of Din’s balled fist and embrace him. My arms wrap up over his shoulders and around his neck, clutching onto the rough wool of his cape. He exhales a shuddering breath, muffled against the fabric of my sweater where he’s buried his face.

It feels so good to hold him. The beskar bites my skin less than I thought it would, and beneath it, he is warm and soft, bending like a heated precious metal under my touch.

“Can we please stay up here? Until it’s time to land?”

His voice breaks the fragile places around my heart. He sounds so tired and lost. I want to help him - to be a light and a lifeline out at sea. I owe the galaxy this kindness, just as this kindness was given to me.

“Of course,” I whisper to him. “We can stay.”

Din squeezes my waist again, but it feels so different this time. It is filled with such a deep gratitude that it overwhelms me, threatens to drown me.

When we part, we spend the next hour perched on the end of the bed, continuing our talk. Din tells me stories about Grogu - about the shame he felt handing him over to the Empire, and the sense of duty he felt to save him. He tells me about Mandalorian culture, about how sacred the clan bond is, about how all children - foundling or family-born - are treated equally and with the utmost care and love.

He asks about me, and how I got here. I choose to tell him the whole story - not just the glossy redemption tale that the Republic wants me to tell.

He and I have more similarities than I ever imagined.

We spend the next hour relaxed back against the pillows, our shoes off, with the blue light stick thrown somewhere between us. We talk about the galaxy - about the places we’ve been, where we want to go and where we will never go again. He seems to like Sorgan a lot.

We spend the third hour sprawled on our backs, sneaking looks at one another as we talk about other people. Din has stripped off his upper armor and cape, leaving him in just his worn canvas shirt from the waist up.

He asks me about the people on Chandrila, if I think he can find any work there. I tell him yes, if he knows where to look. He asks me what my life is like there, if I’ve made many friends. I tell him yes, though far fewer than he’d think.

He asks me if I have a romantic partner. I tell him no. He gets quiet.

When he looks at me again, he twists onto his side, mussing his hair against the pillow. His brown eyes glint and sparkle in the low blue light as he studies me, drinking me in slowly and intentionally. Heat blooms across my chest under his silent attention.

“Are you lonely?” he finally asks, voice feather-light like powdered snow.

I don’t know how to answer him. It takes me a moment to find a response.

“Not right now,” I whisper back.

The faintest whisper of a smile dances across his lips.

My navcomp alarm rings, signaling our arrival to the hyperspace lane drop-off. I curse the galaxy’s excruciating timing the entire walk down to the cockpit.


	6. Chapter 6

I pull out of light speed and check the fuel meter one more time. I’ve got enough to power back up while still managing a safe landing, but don’t want to push my luck.

I flip on my comms to try and finagle an expedited entry into Chandrila’s airspace. There’s an odd amount of both marked and unmarked New Republic surveillance traffic circulating the planet. Something must be going on - either a low-level threat or a high-level meeting.

My comm output crackles to life - the first voice other than Din’s I’ve heard in nearly twelve hours.

 _“_ That you, agent?”

A smile cracks wide and bright across my cheeks.

“Suli?” I respond. “Damn, they’ve got you working traffic control today?”

Suli chuckles, and I can feel her eye-roll through the audio feed. After her recent promotion, sitting back in the control tower seems beneath her. Something’s going on, and it’s big.

“Yeah. Can’t say why over comms, but call Mo when you touch down. Big moves today.”

“No shit. Can you clear me ahead? I’m on fumes.”

“Sure. Where were you?”

“Classified. But it was far enough away to make me think I’d never make it back.”

“Well, we’re glad you’re home,” she says warmly. “You’re cleared through to Hangar 2, no delays. Welcome back.”

Din comes down into the cockpit a moment later, back in his helmet and full suit of armor. His presence is distracting, like a magnet trying to pull me backwards through my seat. I didn’t want our quiet talk to end, alone together in the timeless vacuum of hyperspace.

Chandrila is a gorgeous green-blue today, with clear skies full of sunshine. As the capital city comes into view, I feel a familiar pride swell within me. I never thought I’d have a life like this - that I’d one day fly a ship over sparkling towers and safe streets and be able to call it my home.

I find myself wishfully hoping that Din likes it here. If Sorgan was such a bright spot for him, maybe he’ll like the rolling hills and placid lakes that lie just beyond the city walls.

As soon as my ship touches the landing pad, a pair of droids frantically roll out of the service bay door to begin maintenance. From the cockpit, I see one of the mechanics emerge and squint up into the sun, assessing my starfighter. I already know I’m gonna hear it about the charred blaster marks.

“Ever been to a Republic base?” I ask Din as we make our way out of the ship.

“That’s a joke, right?” he says, following my lead out into the hangar.

“Nope. I think you’ll like it.”

Maybe by speaking it out loud, I’ll bring it into existence. Maybe he _will_ like it here. Maybe he’ll want to spend more time with me, to let me in just a little bit more. I watched Din for so long from a distance that it feels surreal to have him in front of me. An attachment is growing quickly between us, and I hope it isn’t one-sided.

The mechanic waits impatiently at the end of my ramp, already huffing and puffing. He shakes his head while typing away on a datapad.

“Sweet Mother of Kwath,” he grumbles. His grey coveralls are streaked with black grease, just like his hands. They leave dirty fingerprints all over the datapad screen. “You ever leave this place and _not_ get in a shoot-out?”

I flash him a roguish smirk, and swear I can hear Din quietly chuckle under his helmet.

“What’s the fun in that?” I wink.

“Kriffin’ impossible to find parts for this old junker,” he complains, muttering curses as the droids start their repairs.

“Oh, trust me,” I call back over my shoulder. “I’d love a newer ship. Just gotta convince the big dogs to buy me one!”

The mechanic continues his grumbling as I make my way out of the hangar. Din trails along behind me, taking in the sights. The New Republic headquarters are bustling today, her halls swimming with a bright energy to match the crisp white interior.

Din and I look and stink like hell, ripe with the smell of battle and days worth of nonstop travel. We stick out amongst the uniformed officers and elegant politicians milling about the grounds.

I fish my comm out of my pocket and dial Mo.

“Good, you’re back,” he greets after the second ring.

“Almost didn’t make it,” I answer.

I check over my shoulder and see Din still trailing me. As much as I’d jump at the opportunity to have him spend time in my apartment outside the city, I know he’d be more comfortable using one of the private visitor quarters here at the base. I make my way down the hall to the courtyard, crossing through the open-air space towards the residential wing.

“A story for another time, I’m sure,” Morris dismisses. “Look, I know you’re probably heartbroken over this, but I need to reschedule our debrief.”

“I’m shattered,” I deadpan. “What’s going on? Don’t think I’ve ever seen it this busy here.”

I picked up on Mo’s clipped tone through the comm and can tell he’s just as slammed as everyone else.

“And where are you?” I add.

Being gone for so long makes me feel disconnected and lost. I don’t like being out of the loop like this.

“I’m out in Senate Plaza doing a security sweep.”

“Seriously? _You_? Doing field work?”

I am fucking flabbergasted. Thanks to his injuries, Mo has been a desk jockey since the Battle of Jakku. This is truly bizarre.

“We have important guests coming in. People to woo. They control the trade routes and mining planets bordering the Unknown Regions,” he explains. “We have to secure their allegiance, especially now that we know how much remnant activity is buzzing over in those sectors.”

So my intel contributed to this. I mentally pat myself on the back, since it doesn’t appear that Mo will do it for me.

“Any assignment for me? You know I love a party,” I smirk.

It’s been a while since the New Republic has hosted any sort of favor-swinging soirée. I want an excuse to get dressed up - especially after this last mission - and siphon intel from drunken revelers. Ops like that, where I get to be slick and calculating, are always my favorite.

This is going to be _fun._

“Hate to tell you this way, kid, but…” Mo breaks off with a heavy sigh. “You’re suspended until further notice.”

I skid to a stop in the hallway, sending Din slamming into my back.

“What?!” I spit into the receiver. “I deserve a real hearing, Mo. This is _bantha shit.”_

Din circles around to my front, helmet cocked inquisitively. I can see my angry red eyes and flushed face in the reflection of his armor. Streams of other New Republic staff pour past us, unbothered by my sudden meltdown.

“We’ll have one after the weekend. It wasn’t my choice, but rules are rules.”

His voice is gentle, and I know he feels bad - but this is ridiculous. The comm is squeezed so tightly in my fist that I wouldn’t be surprised if it shattered.

“Mo, they’ve got you on the ground, Suli in the air tower… what’s this really about? You can’t say I’m not needed, because it’s crystal fucking clear that—”

“We _do_ need you, kiddo,” he interrupts. “But my hands are tied on this. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” I chirp, closing the line before I say something I regret — or worse, let the molten anger sloshing behind my eyes spring forward as tears.

“Come on,” I say to Din, aggressively cocking my head forward down the hallway.

He follows beside me, keeping in time with my bitter stomping.

“You alright?” he asks. The concern in his tone makes me even angrier that we have to part ways so soon.

“Fine,” I grumble back, trudging forward until we reach the entryway to the guest barracks.

 _Barracks_ isn’t really the right term though, because the entire space is gorgeous. New Republic leadership understands the power and influence of beautifully designed spaces and excellent hospitality. The visitors wing is no exception.

I approach a service droid stationed at the reception desk and lean against its smooth, white stone top.

“I need a room, for an intelligence ally,” I say to the droid.

“Intelligence ally?” Din parrots behind me.

“Formality,” I wave off his question and turn to face him. “How long do you need to get back on your feet?”

He shrugs at me.

“A week is enough. I think.”

I swing back towards the droid and raise my eyebrows expectantly.

“So?”

“I’m sorry, madam and sir,” it apologizes in its prim Core-inspired voice. “But due to the upcoming diplomatic activities, all rooms are currently accounted for. If I may suggest an off-site option for visiting civilians, I do recommend the Hotel Chand—”

“Of course they are,” I interrupt, cutting off the droid’s overly helpful rambling. I lean my back against the cool stone countertop and cross my arms, giving Din a look.

He’ll be staying with me, then. I try to keep my excitement buried deep, and have an easier time of it thanks to my sour mood.

“I’m assuming you don’t have the credits for accommodations of your own?” I ask him.

Din sighs and rests his hands on his belt, his subtle sass giving me all the answers I need.

“Don’t worry,” I reassure, pushing up off the desk. “Plenty of room at my place.”

———

“I thought you said you had plenty of room,” Din jabs, picking up a potted plant he knocked over.

I frown and take it from his hands, sad to see it faring very poorly after my extended absence. I pluck a browned leaf off its wilted stalk and toss it in the trash bin.

“Compared to my ship,” I shrug.

My apartment is small - though I’d rather use the word “homey” - and located just two klicks outside the capital city gates. “Apartment” is also a choice term; it’s really more of an efficiency, with everything but the ‘fresher in the same open space. I’m here so infrequently that the layout doesn’t bother me.

Rent is much cheaper outside the capital, but aside from that, I find this area so much prettier. Through the windows, if the fog lifts at just the right time, I can see the rising sun peek up over the sparkling crystal cliffs to the north.

I move to my closet and start unpacking my kit bag from the trip, stowing away my armor and weapons and throwing my balled up soiled clothing into the laundry chute.

Before we left headquarters, I swung by the surplus stores to nab some off-duty uniforms for Din to wear. I motion to the stack of simple pants and shirts on the kitchen counter as I tidy things up.

“Go take a shower,” I tell him. “A real one.”

“You saying I smell?”

“Like a wet wampa,” I snark, showing off a sly grin. “Take those clothes. They’re yours.”

Din digs through the pile and makes his selections before slipping into the refresher. I thank the Maker I had the common sense to deep clean the whole place before I left.

It thrills me to know that he’s naked in there - in my own home - and that he’ll be staying with me. It is the singular silver lining to the shit ending of my bizarre assignment to watch him and his kid.

When Din eventually opens the refresher door, a cloud of dense steam billows out from the threshold. He used my soap, making the air hang thick with an exotic floral scent that doesn’t suit him, but smells nice all the same.

I can’t control the panicky wave of affection I feel as I watch him pad around my apartment. He places his armor in a neat pile on the low table in front of my couch. He’s so close to my bed, _he’s so close to my bed_ , and he’s wearing a set of loose, comfortable canvas pants and a long-sleeved white cotton shirt. He’s pushed the sleeves up, revealing a pair of strong forearms, corded with muscles that ripple and twitch as he tidies up after himself.

The domesticity of it is enough to make me want to do something stupid, like cook for him.

“That was great,” he says, straightening back up to thank me. His hair is damp and mussed, falling in wet waves around his face and down the back of his neck. I swallow and avert my eyes.

“Yeah, you’re welcome.” Stars, _don’t_ look at him like this. “Hot water’s always nice after hours in space.”

“It is,” he agrees. He picks up the little tube of pain relief gel and fiddles with it.

“Do you need—”

“Can you, uh—”

We speak at the same time and stop abruptly, breaking into shy chuckles. Din extends the tube out to me and turns around, hoisting up the back of his clean shirt.

It’s even harder now to control the way my body responds to touching him. His skin is warm and soft from the hot water, still flushed a shade pinker as if he’d been laying in the sun too long. When I swipe the first bit of gel onto him, he jolts at the contact. It must feel even colder after a proper shower.

“Am I getting the right spot again?” I ask, even though I know the answer. I know _exactly_ where to touch him, the memory of it still sharp and fresh in my mind.

“Yeah, that’s perfect,” he says, and my head spins. “Your shower felt _good._ ”

I run the flat of my thumb over his spine and see the way his shoulders slump down in relief. I consider it a little payback for the way his voice is registered so low and throaty while I’m stroking him like this.

“Hot water that much of a luxury for you?”

I really need to stop needling him like this while he’s putty in my hands.

“It is,” he says, either choosing to ignore my belittling or not caring about it in the slightest. “You might have to drag me out of there next time.”

Woof, what a sentence to unpack. _Next time_. I’d rather join him under the spray, add to the pleasure, than pry him out of it to leave him cold and dry.

I mumble a laugh and replace the cap on the gel tube while Din lowers his shirt. When he turns to face me, he’s got that relaxed look again, like he’s the most content, grateful fucker in the universe.

“I don’t want to be a bad guest,” he confesses with a sheepish furrow of his eyebrows. “What can I do to help you while you take your shower?”

I actively murder the lizard-brained part of me that wants to blurt out, _Get in with me since you like it so much._

“You don’t have to do anything,” I tell him.

Din sighs. “I want to though.”

I roll my eyes playfully at him and turn back towards my closet again, pulling out another towel and a change of clothes.

“Just relax. You can do that, right?”

He scoffs at me as I slip into the refresher. I’m not sure he knows how to sit back and do absolutely nothing. I have no evidence of it, aside from our quiet, soul-baring talk, whispered to each other in the dark aboard my ship.

By the time I emerge from the refresher, Din is in the kitchen, but he’s not eating anything - mostly because there’s nothing there. Instead, he’s laid out each of my weapons and pieces of armor from the mission and is cleaning them with tender care. The sink is stopped and half-filled with soapy water, which he dips a cloth into to wipe away the dirt and grime from my gauntlets.

“You’re gonna get yourself dirty again, doing that,” I remark behind him.

Din turns. His shirt is speckled with water droplets from the waist down, and a small streak of blaster grease marks his pants leg.

“Maybe I’m looking for another reason to get under that hot water,” he volleys back with a smirk.

I hop myself up onto the counter and swing my legs, softly knocking the backs of my bare ankles against the lower cabinets.

“Well, since I unexpectedly have the night off, what do you want to do tonight?”

Din returns to cleaning and hums, considering his response.

“Let’s do whatever you normally do on a night off,” he suggests.

“I don’t think you’d like that.”

“Why not?”

He doesn’t need to know that it usually involves heading down to the nightlife district, drinking and smoking and sharking barroom games until I can’t see straight or the sun comes up - whichever’s first.

“You wouldn’t like it,” I repeat, hoping I get my point across. “Are you hungry?”

Din nods.

“Let’s go out and grab a bite.”

He pauses, looking hesitant. “I don’t know about that.”

“Why not?” I hop down from the counter and lean my hip against it, crossing my arms over my chest.

“I haven’t really eaten in front of anybody yet,” he cautiously admits. “Just you.”

Ah. Alright. I see.

“No problem,” I say breezily, trying to diffuse his anxiety. “We’ll have something delivered.”

He offers up a soft smile and another nod, hiding his relief as he dips the cloth back into the sink basin. I move to the console and pull up some local menus, idly chatting with Din about his dinner selections.

It feels natural and nice.

When the delivery droid hands off our food, we move to my little couch and eat atop the low table, spreading our bounty of takeout packages wide across its surface. We eat sweet-and-sour noodles with crispy green vegetables, a few pieces of fresh lake-caught fish, and a pair of airy, moussy chocolate cream puffs. Din takes his time, appreciating the flavors and textures, savoring things in a way I’m sure he’s unaccustomed to. He finds he’s particularly fond of the sweet puffs.

Din falls asleep spread out long across the couch. The blue glow of my holoprojector casts tiny shadowed crescents atop his cheeks, just beneath the fan of his lashes.

I marvel at the fact that every day I’m with him, he looks more and more at peace.


	7. Chapter 7

When I stir awake, Din is already up and in the kitchen again. He rifles through my cabinets and conservator, coming up empty at every turn.

“What’re you looking for?” I ask groggily.

I didn’t sleep well with him in the same room - not because he himself made it difficult, but because my mind couldn’t stop racing, swirling up all sorts of fantasies that involved both of us in varying states of undress.

“Anything edible,” he grunts. “All I can find is caf.”

“You always this hungry?”

I roll out of bed and hurriedly smooth down my rumpled hair and clothes while he’s preoccupied. He of course looks gorgeous as is, fresh off the tiny sofa.

“It’s not that,” he grumbles, fiddling with the caf machine’s buttons and knobs. “I’m just trying to be a good guest.”

I stretch and head over to the kitchen to help.

“You’ve gotta stop worrying about that.”

He shrugs, making way for me to get the caf going.

“Mandalorians have a duty to repay their debts,” he explains, his voice steadfast and serious. It makes me laugh.

“I’m barely doing anything,” I tell him.

“You’ve given me food and shelter,” he says pointedly. “Clothing, too.”

“Thank the New Republic for that. Not me.”

The caf machine sputters in the background as he leans up against the counter, shooting me a look from beneath his furrowed brow.

“The New Republic wanted me in a jail cell,” he says, voice tinged with a little bit of resentment. “I owe you my freedom, too.”

I playfully grimace at him as I pull two mugs from an overhead cabinet. The talk of unpaid debts makes me feel wobbly and weird. It reminds me too much of why I’ve brought Din here in the first place - to try and get him on his feet - and intensifies the shame of lusting after him like a horny teenager.

“You’re being awfully dramatic,” I tease.

I get nothing but a sigh in response.

“How do you take your caf?” I ask him, changing the subject as seamlessly as I can without any stimulants jolting me into full form. “I hope you say black, because I have absolutely nothing else here.”

“Then why ask?” Din teases back.

Fuck, he really knows how to derail my best intentions when he’s smirking at me like this. I chuckle under my breath and will myself not to let my eyes wander across the strong breadth of his battle-formed body.

“Trying to be a good host,” I pipe at him.

Din hides a shy smile and darts his eyes away from me as I pour two steaming mugs of caf. His sheepishness is too cute for his whole dangerous bounty hunter vibe - totally misplaced, and exactly the kind of hard-meets-soft dichotomy I’ve admired in him for weeks.

We sip together in silence for a few minutes before he scrounges up the energy (or courage, Maker knows which) to talk again.

“I need to look for work today,” he says. “Any ideas where I could do that?”

I pick at my mug’s chipped handle and think. Chandrila is a relatively safe planet, but crime exists everywhere in this galaxy.

“You could try the nightlife district,” I offer with a shrug. “Gambling’s pretty big down there. Probably some debtors that need to be shown a little muscle.”

Din considers this and nods, taking another sip of his drink. I get the sense he doesn’t like that idea, and I feel somewhat relieved. I’m not fond of him discovering that my off-duty time is typically spent doing the questionable, seedy things I enjoyed while running with the gangs. Some habits die hard - particularly when they’re so fun.

I’ve never liked the idea of totally losing my edge. Being a spy for the Republic - the _literal_ group I used to hide from - is about as lame a turn my life could’ve taken, considering my past. My old friends wouldn’t even recognize me.

I quiet that part of my mind - the kind that longs for things that were bad for me, for the galaxy.

“Not your usual job?” I ask him.

He scoffs behind the lip of his mug and drains its contents in one large gulp.

“No. Jobs like that are easy but rarely worth the time or credits,” he gruffs. “But beggars can’t be choosers, I guess.”

I hum into my own cup and give him a sympathetic nod.

“Don’t feel too bad. I’m technically unemployed until further notice.”

“You could come with me,” he offers.

I try to ignore the way his eyes look when they meet mine, sparkling at the edges with some small hope that I might spend more time with him.

Actually, no, that can’t be it. He wants something from me. Why would he want me or my company?

“Probably not the best idea,” I decline softly. “The New Republic stopped contracting bounty hunters a few years ago, after the Liberation Day attacks.”

I am fully content in giving him that answer instead of saying, _No way, we will run head-on into every Chandrilan man I’ve bedded since 6 ABY._

Din gives me a puzzled look.

“Didn’t hear about that mess out in the fringes, huh?” I ask, though I’m not surprised. HoloNet access is a luxury in the far reaches of space. “It happened here on Chandrila, in roughly the same spot we were yesterday. The Empire visited under the guise of peace talks, and instead they launched an attack. They didn’t send in their own troops for it either. Those dirty Imps planted behavior chips in newly freed slaves, and ordered them to kill the Chancelor and all the other New Republic leadership.”

Din’s jaw steels. It’s a hard story to hear, and I’m sure reminds him of his young charge being imprisoned by the Empire. Imagine being freed as a show of good faith, only to be used as a pawn in the Empire’s sick game. It is a cruel fate to always be a slave, even in freedom.

“You were there?” he asks.

I shake my head. “Happened shortly before I was recruited. It was a precursor to the Battle of Jakku. I’m sure you heard about that one,” I finish.

Din nods and watches as I drink the rest of my caf. He reaches out to take the empty cup, brushing my fingers with his as it’s handed off. I feel my heart jump into my throat and choose to blame it on the strong brew.

“Do you think anything like that could happen again?” he asks.

“The Empire is too fragmented now,” I posit, though it’s an overly simplistic answer. “But I suppose anything is possible.”

Din hums pensively and moves to the sink with our cups. He pushes his shirt sleeves up again, keeping them dry as he cleans up. I can sense his gears turning as he thoroughly washes both mugs.

“Do you have a long range comm here?” he asks. “I have an idea.”

“It’s built into the console,” I tell him, waving my hand towards the wall panel where I’d ordered dinner the night before. “Help yourself.”

Din finishes up in the kitchen and moves to his pile of armor and padding. He collects it and slips into the refresher to get fully dressed, emerging moments later concealed from head to toe. He looks so much larger in the armor, and I’m reminded of how awkwardly he moved around my home when he first entered, knocking over my dead plants and muttering curses under his breath. It was almost starting to feel comfortable, with him lazing around in nondescript civilian clothes on my sofa.

He keys in a code on the comm and steps back into the scanner’s transmission field. After a short moment, the other line connects, bringing up a fuzzy blue holo of a man dressed in a dramatic cape. He is older, with grey dusting the hair along his temples, his eyes crinkled with age at the corners. Gaudy gold brooches hold his cloak in place across his shoulders, shining as bright and rich as his dazzling smile.

“Mando!” he exclaims, holding his hands wide in greeting. “Where are you calling from, friend? Cara says you left that light cruiser with some Rebel hot shot.” He wriggles his eyebrows suggestively. “She said she was a looker, too. You know, Mando, there’s nothing quite as comforting as the smooth, warm embrace of a beautif—”

“ _Karga,”_ he spits, the sound mechanical and grating through the vocal modulator. “I’m on Chandrila. I need work. Got anything for me?”

The man, Karga, guffaws and folds his arms across his chest.

“Chandrila’s a dry planet, Mando. The New Republic’s got a hold on all the crime, you should know that much.”

Din twists the helmet towards me - a small, nearly imperceptible motion that feels like an apology. But for what? The man’s brashness?

“There’s some activity here, planetside,” Din says to the holo.

Oh. _Oh, no._

“Some guests are visiting from the Outer Rim,” he continued. My stomach turns into an ice fist in my belly. “Important guests.”

Karga’s eyebrows jut upwards, creasing his wrinkles deeper.

“You’re gonna have to give me more detail than that, my friend,” he says impatiently. All of his motions feel exaggerated and over-the-top, especially compared to Din’s stoicism.

Din sighs and looks at me fully this time. I’m reeling just beyond the transmitter’s field of vision. He learned these things in some amorphous condition of semi-confidence, overheard in the armored halls of the New Republic’s headquarters. It’s not public knowledge - _especially_ not like this.

If the Imperial remnant finds out we’re making moves like this, it could be disastrous.

“What can I tell him?” Din asks me quietly.

“Who’re you talkin’ to, Mando?” Karga asks, a wily curiosity seeping into his jovial tone.

I’m frozen between the ickiness of handing over prime intel to a _kriffing stranger_ and the intense desire to help Din. He clearly has some sort of plan working, and I think I know where it’s going. Can I trust him to handle this quietly? To keep my name out of his mouth and off this paper trail?

My silence drags on too long.

“Wait,” Karga says. “You’re with that Rebel girl, aren’t you? You _dog,_ ” he leers, grinning wide with a lascivious chuckle.

My cheeks flush from the embarrassment. Maker, _what_ a piece of work this man is. Classic Outer Rim gall.

“The New Republic is hosting some trading and mining magnates. Can you check your orders for anyone you think might be here?” Din asks.

I throw my hands up in frustration.

“You can’t just tell people that,” I hiss at him under my breath.

Din fixes me with a look, hidden beneath the beskar, and waves his wide palm at me like I’m some wild animal he needs to calm. I roll my eyes so hard that I think I see the inside of my skull.

“Sit tight, I’ll take a look,” Karga says, turning to his side to type commands into a computer.

I shoot daggers at Din from across my apartment, mentally flaying him with my stare. He seems mostly unaffected, which spurs my anger higher and hotter. After a brief search, Karga’s expression lights up.

“I’ve got one that might work. Are the Garbo tibanna miners there? Garbo Gas? They’re big players along the far border,” he asks, stroking his neatly-trimmed stubble.

I stifle a chuckle at the name Garbo Gas. All those credits and they still can’t come up with an original company name, or at least something not so painfully goofy.

“No idea,” Din answers, hooking his thumbs into the lip of his belt. He’s relaxing back into his bounty hunter headspace now, all cool negotiations and swaggering confidence. It’s hot. I curse myself for thinking it’s this hot.

“Well,” Karga practically purrs. “It appears the Garbo family’s eldest son has a debt he can’t repay - a very large one. Says here he pissed his inheritance away on spice and women, and he can’t pay the tab.”

“Who ordered?”

“The Aminah Group. Familiar?”

“Yeah,” he confirms with a sigh.

My blood takes a sweeping dive from running magma hot to nitrous cold. The Aminah Group is notorious in the Outer Rim, operating in the darkest fringes of the galaxy where New Republic control is still so slippery it barely exists.

I never ran jobs for them - I didn’t like how they treat their women - but Maker, the Aminah enforcers were ruthless. This Garbo kid really fucked himself, and as their prisoner, his family will likely pay _triple_ what he owes for his freedom.

“Want it?” Karga asks. “Pay’s a little under your usual rate.”

My mind is still racing, running like a wild fathier, trying to piece together a plan where Din can get this done and not implicate me any further. The good news is that the Garbo kid’s guard will be down while he’s here on Chandrila, protected on all sides by armed Republic security. Din is gonna have to do this on the sly, away from the capital, and he can’t afford to wait until the festivities have started inside Senate Plaza. He needs to do this now, tonight.

“Depends,” Din says. “If they want a warm body, I’m out. I’m stuck planetside.”

Fuck, his lack of ship is more of a thorn in his side than I initially thought. Bounty hunting isn’t all about the hunt, after all. There’s the transport to consider.

My gut twists as I sense Karga’s patience waning, like this will slip between Din’s fingers if we don’t act now.

“Take the job,” I tell him, the words spilling from me before I have time to think any more about it. “We’ll figure it out.”

He whips the helmet to me, and it’s like I can feel him stop breathing. He didn’t expect this. Stars, _I_ barely expected to go this far in helping him.

But I want to. I want to so badly that it’s starting to feel more like a _need_ than a want, especially when he looks at me like that.

“Well, Mando, looks like you’re good to go then,” Karga says jovially. “I can’t get you a puck or a fob while you’re this deep in the Core, but I think you’ll do just fine. Sending you the order details now. There’s a fair amount of intel to get you started.”

Din nods and moves wordlessly to the console to end the holo. Karga holds up a gloved finger, halting Din’s abrupt farewell.

“Before you go,” he starts, then pivots to face Din fully in the blue holoprojection. “Just one more personal item.”

Din retreats from the power switch, standing expectantly in front of the transmitter. Karga’s mood immediately shifts, growing somber.

“I heard about what happened to the kid,” he says, his calculating eyes taking on a soft sadness. “I’m very sorry, Mando. I know how much he meant to you.”

Hearing another person talk about Grogu like he’s gone forever rips at the threadbare parts of my heart - the parts that keep unraveling for Din, unspooling themselves as he bares more of himself to me. I have to do something - use my connections to try and reunite them somehow, if only for a few moments.

Morris will know what to do. He might not have a direct line to Skywalker, but he’s farther up the ladder here than me… and he knows Senator Organa well.

“Yeah,” Din huffs. “Thanks.”

He closes the holo abruptly and stays there for a moment, resting his fingertips against the call button.

As much as I want to embrace him again, to try and squeeze some comfort into the soft breaks between his beskar plates, I’m still angry with him. I won’t let it go that easily.

“You put me in a tough spot,” I tell him. Din tenses, and despite the way my chest aches for him right now, he should feel bad.

“I know,” he says. “I’m sorry. If circumstances were different —”

“I know,” I repeat. “So here’s what needs to happen.”

Din moves from the console and faces me, resting his hands on his hips.

“If this Garbo asshole parties like your boss says he does, he’ll definitely be in the nightlife district tonight,” I explain.

“Greef Karga is _not_ my boss,” Din scoffs.

“Regardless,” I roll my eyes. “He’ll be there. And I can’t let you use my access to ---” I search for the right word, “--- _apprehend_ him at Senate Plaza. Too messy.”

“Why not? It’s the perfect opportunity to catch him unaware,” he protests.

“Don’t push your luck,” I parry. “We’ll be using my ship to transport him, after all.”

Din stills, and I can feel the tension rolling off of him in powerful waves.

“You’d do that?”

He sounds wondrous, incredulous. I sigh and lean back against the wall.

“It’s kriffing stupid, but yeah. Using government property to transport a quarry - somebody on-world for _government business_ \- is the stupidest kriffing idea I’ve ever had.”

He tilts the helmet slowly, drawing it down and back up, still holding the rest of him ramrod straight.

“So why do it?”

His intense attention makes my skin burn, flushed and sweltering like it’s being heated from the inside out.

“I suppose I like you,” I quip. I look at the suddenly very interesting seam where the opposite wall meets the ceiling - anywhere but back at him.

While I wrestle down the fear singing through my blood at admitting this, Din continues his statue-still staring.

“Good,” he says.

I swear I hear the hint of a hidden smile, concealed in the shadow beneath his helmet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As someone who very much enjoys smut, writing a slow burn has been a grand exercise in self-control for me. I'm sitting here at my keyboard like JUST KISS ALREADY.
> 
> I've got all this story, plot, conflict, character development, etc built out and here I am like KISSSSS! Kiss!
> 
> As always, thanks for reading and commenting. The comments really do bring me so much unbridled joy, and I treasure each one like a hand-written love note.


	8. Chapter 8

They’re not going to let him in anywhere. Not looking like that. This is the fourth club in a row to bar him at the door.

“I’m not taking it off,” Din grunts, crossing his arms over his armored chest.

He’s dressed in the full beskar getup, jet pack included. The red and blue neon lights of the nightlife district blend and reflect against his armor, glittering along its curved edges.

“You look like a kriffing mirror ball,” I scoff, repressing the urge to laugh at the image of him hovering just above some packed dance floor, Rising Phoenix ignited, spinning in tiny, slow circles. “I told you this back at my place. There’s this thing called _dress code_ at the nice spots.”

“Then we won’t search the nice spots,” he grumbles, pivoting on his boot away from the velvet ropes and queue of fashionable young revelers.

“We’re looking for a trust fund brat,” I argue. “He won’t be anywhere _but_ the nice spots.”

Din keeps trudging ahead, ignoring me.

“This was a bad idea,” he mutters, almost quietly enough that I don’t hear him.

He’s not wrong. This is a horrible idea. Helping him means risking a hearing that will be much less merciful than the one I’m currently waiting for. That hearing is just for shirking an order, a pretty minor offense considering nothing catastrophic happened.

This, though? This is like — _multiple_ ethics violations bad, improper use of government _property_ bad, aiding and abetting a known _criminal_ bad.

“Where are you going?” I ask his back, noticing the curl of his hands into loose fists.

He stays silent for a moment, clear in his annoyance with me, with this whole situation.

“Your apartment,” he says brusquely. When I open my mouth to chide him for giving up too easily, he continues, “I’ll take it off.”

———

He looks so awkward and uncomfortable like this. I understand why he’d want the cover and comfort of his armor; without it, he is twitchy and on-edge, thrust into a sweating throng of scantily clad partiers. He won’t catch anyone this way, flinching every time someone gets too close. It’s like the confidence has disappeared with the beskar.

I lean against the bar and watch him, sipping my drink. He scans the room, passing his gaze over all the unfamiliar faces but never lingering long enough to make eye contact. He keeps fingering the cuffs of his shirt, pinching and rolling the fabric between his thumb and forefinger.

“By the Maker, if you’re going to stand here fidgeting at least get a drink,” I groan.

Din narrows his eyes at me and scowls.

“It’ll occupy your hands,” I tell him, waving down the barkeep. I order him a fire whiskey cut with water, remembering how he liked what I had on offer on my ship.

When I slide him the glass along the bartop, he does that thing again where he brushes his fingers over mine. He drifts a tiny bit closer and takes a tentative sip, scanning the room one more time.

“We need to ask around. Gather some intel,” he says lowly, quiet enough that I have to lean into him to hear.

“We?”

He sighs. “Yes, we. I need your help.”

The rawness in his voice - that poorly cloaked sincerity, even more noticeable now without the helmet - keeps me from teasing him further.

“Alright,” I fold. “How do you want to handle this?”

“You talk to security. They seem to like you more.” I chortle. He’s got jokes again, too. “I’ll hang out by that booth over there,” he says, pointing with his drink to a curtained section by the DJ’s balcony.

“Ah,” I smirk up at him. “So I do the hard work while you eavesdrop.”

He fixes me with an unamused look.

“How are you even gonna hear over there, that close to the speakers?” I badger him.

Din leans in just a bit closer, until his mouth is nearly level with my ear.

“Remember what I said on your ship, about the helmet protecting my eyesight?” he asks, and I recall how fluidly he moved in the dark, like he could see straight through the black.

I lick my lips, trying to impart some moisture in a mouth that has gone suddenly dry. “I remember.”

“I have excellent hearing, too,” he says, and like a candle blowing out he is gone, striding through the packed club towards the private booths.

 _I have excellent hearing, too._ The way he said it, scraping the lowest parts of his sea-level baritone, meant something, didn’t it?

Did it mean he heard me that night, touching myself alone in the refresher on my ship?

Shame singes its way up my neck. I slam the rest of my drink and try to shake the feeling that curls itself around my spine - like I’ve been watched, like he’s seen straight through me, like he knows exactly what I’ve kept hidden from him.

I suppose I deserve that.

The security guards are quick to talk to me, eager for an excuse to chat with a giggly girl batting her lashes instead of doing their jobs. I compliment them on their muscles and tattoos, and flatter them by implying that I’m a fragile, tiny thing needing to be protected.

It’s all bullshit, and it’s unsurprising how easily it works.

They tell me they saw the Garbo kid here earlier tonight, but he’s moved on. They don’t know where.

I march over to Din, steering him by the elbow away from the crowd. I shout over the music that I’ve got a lead and it’s time to go.

He replies to me, but all I hear is muffled mumbling.

“What?” I yell, angling my ear towards him.

Din leans all the way in, brushing his lips against the shell of my ear. Goosebumps ripple down my neck, so different from the hot shame of earlier. This is electric, buzzing like radio static over an old love song.

“Bormea Tavern,” he says, his voice cutting through the cacophony of the club’s pounding one-two beat. My heart thrums ahead of its rhythm. “You heard of it?”

Bormea Tavern is a nondescript neighborhood eatery and inn near headquarters. It is completely mediocre, but survives thanks to its proximity to the New Republic’s main hub. They are known for their cheese sandwiches, unremarkable except for the fact that they’re available anytime, day or night, for just two credits.

“Yeah, it’s awful. Why?”

“Garbo’s got a room waiting,” he answers, then jerks his head toward the booth. His voice is even quieter when he continues, despite knowing this place is too loud for anyone to overhear. “The pimp up there set him up with one of his women.”

My eyes widen. The capital must be really low on available hotel space right now if a high class escort is willing to work out of a place like Bormea Tavern - a place so close to the New Republic Guard’s dispatch center that you could theoretically throw your dry cheese sandwich out the window and hit a cop every time.

“Let’s go,” he says, pulling me by the elbow. I trail him along the perimeter to a side exit, slipping out of the utility door and into the balmy night.

———

We specifically requested the circular corner booth with the intention of watching every door into Bormea Tavern’s main entrance. Din is markedly more comfortable here, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with me, away from the constant press of other people. Several other tables are occupied in the small café, filled with people starting or ending their nights over cheap, simple meals. It’s quieter here, almost peaceful with the muted sounds of the kitchen and shared laughter floating through the room.

It gives me a different perspective on this space - a chance to appreciate its quaintness and simplicity.

Din loudly crunches into another bite of his cheese sandwich.

“What’s the verdict?” I ask him, slightly revolted by how quickly he’s putting these sandwiches away. He’s on his second one, and I fully plan to offer him mine.

“This is very good,” he says, words garbled as he chews.

“You’re a liar,” I snark. “Either that or you’ve been living off freeze-dried ration packs for too long.”

“I don’t lie,” he shoots back, wiping crumbs from his mouth before diving in for another bite.

The chime of the main door’s bell rings out, signaling the arrival of a new patron. Din and I snap our attention forward as we wait to see who’s entering.

An older man with bushy, dark eyebrows and a datapad tucked under his arm enters, and oh, stars _,_ it’s Agent _Morris_ of all people.

I whip around to Din, hiding my face behind my hand and hair.

“It’s my boss,” I whip a whisper at him. “We have to hide. He doesn’t know I brought you here.”

“Is that bad?” Din asks, sliding himself slightly lower against the backrest.

“I dunno. Just — Maker, I don’t want another lecture.”

A dumb idea is pounding its fists against the soft tissue of my brain, fighting its way through the weak wall of my best judgement.

I press the toe of my boot atop the table’s base and push forward, giving me enough room to slide underneath it, and drag Din along with me. He quietly protests, grunting out as his head thuds ungracefully against the bottom of the table.

“Brilliant strategy,” he whispers, rubbing his palm over his forehead. “They train you in this type of stuff?”

I turn to him and silently mouth a terse _Shut the fuck up_. He chuckles under his breath.

I can see Mo’s feet across the room, waiting at the service stand for what I’m hoping is a takeout order. He looks fidgety and restless, tapping his toes impatiently against the tiled floor. Poor guy’s working late, and I know how much he hates that - especially when it’s for something stuffy and diplomatic instead of thrilling and heroic.

I also know him well enough to know he’ll be snippy and rude if he does see us.

I shift my weight under the table, trying to get comfortable in the cramped space, and accidentally stick my hand in a pile of something absolutely vile _._ It’s sticky and gross, and I hold my hand out in disgust.

Din notices and slides an arm up over the tabletop, plucking a napkin off its surface. Instead of passing it to me, he reaches over, wrapping his fingers around the wrist of my dirty hand. His grip is warm and sure, and makes me feel dainty though I’m no weak thing. He turns my palm face up and begins to wipe away at the mess, using extra care to get the stubborn spaces between my fingers.

I don’t understand how he can make my chest swell like this, sitting on the sludge-covered floor of some shitty tavern near my office. I don’t know where he found this gentleness, how he came to be this way. Perhaps it’s just an unquestionable part of him, hidden beneath reinforced walls, behind impenetrable armor, buried like treasure.

He only shows it when he wants to. He gives it like a gift, like a whispered secret in the dark.

Din finishes cleaning me up and tosses the dirtied napkin to the side. When he tries to let go of me, I place my hand against his forearm, keeping him in place. He gives me a look, curious and searching, his eyes flitting between mine before drawing down to my mouth.

What would happen if I kissed him right now? Would he pull away, embarrass me as I hide from my problems like a child?

A staccato rap of knuckles against the tabletop pulls us from our spell.

“Kid? The kriff’re you doing?”

I curse under my breath. It’s Mo.

I curl my hand around Din’s shoulder and push myself up, shooting him a warning look to stay put. When I face Mo, he looks completely unamused - though it’s a look I’m very accustomed to receiving from him.

“Hey,” I force an awkward smile. “Good to see you.”

One bushy brow arcs high across his forehead.

“Is that Shiny under there?” he asks, but I’m sure he already knows the answer. I blink up at him innocently and shrug.

“Maybe.”

Morris sighs his disappointment. “Tell him to get up. You’re being ridiculous.”

“Hey,” I whisper under the table, tugging Din by the shirt collar. He slides up and looks between the two of us skeptically.

“Care to explain why he’s still here? Your mission’s done, _and_ you’re suspended,” he says, looking every part the grumpy father I regard him as. “Enlighten me.”

I look over at Din and try to work out a response that won’t be too mortifying - or damning.

“Can we talk outside?” I ask Mo.

He sighs once more and relents, making way for me to awkwardly scoot out of the booth. Din watches us leave, his eyes still wide and a little confused.

I intend to make this as quick as I can.

Mo and I walk around the side of the building to the speeder lot, where he tosses his sack of food onto the passenger seat.

“Alright, listen,” I tell him, softening my voice. “That Mandalorian has been through hell.”

Mo closes the door and leans his hip against it, crossing his arms over his chest. He looks unconvinced so far, but doesn’t interrupt me.

“He didn’t have anywhere he wanted to go after we took down that cruiser. He was sad and scared and totally alone.”

I hope I can convey to him how much I’ve grown to care about Din - how much I want to see him happy.

Mo looks at the ground between our feet and chuckles, a bittersweet sound that I forgot how much I missed.

“Reminds me of somebody I know,” he says. The warmth in his voice, in his heart, spring forward despite his gruffness.

“You cared for me when nobody else would,” I tell him. “I’ve gotta pay it forward.”

He smiles gently.

“Can you trust him?” he asks.

I smile in return, wide and bright as I sass him from a place of deep love. “You trusted me, didn’t you?”

Morris laughs at that, and when he finally looks at me again, I can see the frustration leave him all at once.

“I don’t tell you enough,” I say a little softer, “but thank you. I owe you everything I have.”

Mo’s eyes grow watery under the artificial lights. He swallows it away, clearing his throat loudly.

“Alright, kid. Don’t get all mushy on me,” he says, trying to mask his pinched tone. “Just be careful.”

I playfully swat his arm, trying to smack the sap out of him.

“Yeah, _yeah_ ,” I giggle, flashing him one more big smile. “Get back to work.”

He opens his land speeder door and slips inside. “See you Monday,” he calls out the window, and with a wave he’s gone, disappearing into the night.

With his blessing in my heart, I head back into the tavern, resisting the urge to skip my way through the door.

But when I turn the corner and look towards the circular booth, I find nothing but two unfinished cheese sandwiches. Din is gone - he’s not under the table, and he’s not elsewhere in the room.

I leave a stack of credits at the service stand and run back outside, circling the building, looking for a flash of brown hair and broad shoulders.

He’s _gone_. He could be anywhere.

And he’s unarmed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I owe everyone an apology. Number one for the cliffhanger, and number two because in my draft of this chapter, they definitely kiss under that table.
> 
> I’m considering updating the slow burn tag to glacially slow burn.


End file.
